Chapter 1

Aliyah

The chirp of my alarm reaches into the depths of my dream, yanking me back to consciousness. I groan, stretching my arm out to smack the snooze button, but force myself to resist the temptation. No time for that luxury today.

I push myself upright, swinging my legs over the side of my bed. My eyes adjust to the thin morning light filtering through the cheap blinds of my studio apartment. The space is small—efficient is what the real estate agent called it—but it's mine. Or at least, it's mine as long as I can keep making rent.

"Another day, another hustle," I mutter, padding across the cold floor to the kitchenette.

While the coffee brews, I lean against the counter, surveying my domain. The Murphy bed I just folded up, the second-hand sofa I found on a curb in Brooklyn, the IKEA desk crammed in the corner with my ancient laptop. Not exactly the penthouse suite I'd imagined for myself by twenty-five, but it's a start.

The coffee machine sputters its final gasp, and I pour the steaming liquid into my chipped NYU mug. Graduation feels like a lifetime ago, though it's only been three years. Three years of working my ass off at a marketing firm where I was perpetually overlooked for promotion, despite consistently outperforming my colleagues.

"Youngest marketing associate to land the Wilson account," I remind myself, taking a sip that burns my tongue. "First in my family with a bachelor's degree."

My mother's voice echoes in my head: "You can't just be good, baby girl. You have to be exceptional."

And I have been. I've worked twice as hard as everyone else since I was old enough to understand what it meant to be a Black woman with ambition. But somehow, exceptional hasn't been enough to break through the glass ceiling at Henderson Marketing.

I walk to the window, coffee in hand, and look out at the slice of New York City I can afford—an air shaft view of another brick building. The city that promised so much still holds all my dreams, even if they feel slightly tarnished now.

My phone pings with a notification—another past due notice for my student loans. I sigh, setting down my coffee cup harder than necessary. The stack of bills on my desk seems to grow taller every day, a paper tower of adult responsibilities.

"Time to get serious," I say to the empty apartment.

I power up my laptop and settle at my desk. My resignation letter to Henderson sits in my drafts folder, waiting for the moment I secure something better. I can't afford to leave without another job lined up, not with rent in this city.

I navigate to the job boards I've been obsessively checking for weeks. The familiar mix of hope and dread churns in my stomach as I scroll through listings. Most are lateral moves at best, but today a new posting catches my eye: Executive Assistant to the CEO at Northbridge Financial.

"Holy shit," I whisper, sitting up straighter.

Northbridge is one of the top financial firms in the country. Their headquarters dominate the Manhattan skyline—I pass their building every day on my commute, looking up at those gleaming windows and wondering what it would be like to work somewhere where the sky's the limit.

The salary listed makes my eyes widen. It's nearly double what I'm making now. With that kind of money, I could actually start paying down my loans instead of just covering the interest. Maybe even move to an apartment with a real bedroom.

I scan the requirements, mentally checking them off. Bachelor's degree—check. Experience in professional office settings—check. Strong organizational skills, ability to handle confidential information, excellent communication—check, check, check.

"This is it," I mutter, excitement building in my chest. "This could change everything."

The position reports directly to the CEO, which means visibility, networking opportunities, a chance to prove myself in the financial world. It's not exactly the marketing career I'd envisioned, but it's a foot in the door at a prestigious company with room to grow.

I pull up my resume, determined to tailor it perfectly for this application. My fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment. This isn't just another job application—this feels like a crossroads. If I land this, it could be the beginning of the career I've been fighting for.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," I tell myself, thinking of all the nights I stayed late at the office, all the weekends I sacrificed, all the parties I missed because I was determined to get ahead.

The bills on my desk seem to stare back at me, reminding me of what's at stake. I take a deep breath and begin to type, pouring all my ambition and hopes into this application. This is my shot, and I'm not throwing it away.

My fingers freeze on the keys as a memory hits me. It's not the first time I've had a flashback to that moment—standing in front of Henderson Marketing's glass conference room, watching through the windows as my white male colleague presented my ideas to the executive team.

"That's incredible work, Jason," Mr. Henderson had said, nodding appreciatively while Jason basked in the praise.

My ideas. My research. My sleepless nights.

I'd confronted Jason afterward in the break room. "Those were my slides. My campaign strategy."

"Look, Ali." He'd stirred creamer into his coffee without meeting my eyes. "Henderson wasn't going to listen to it coming from you. I did you a favor. The idea got approved, right?"

"A favor?" My voice had risen despite my efforts to maintain professionalism. "You stole my work."

He'd finally looked at me then, his expression a mixture of pity and condescension. "Come on. You know how this works. You've got two strikes against you in this industry." His eyes had flicked meaningfully over my face, my hair, my body. "I'm just playing the game."

I shake off the memory, refocusing on my Northbridge application. That moment wasn't the first or last time I'd faced such obstacles, but it was the one that made me realize Henderson would never be the place where my career could flourish.

I think of my mother, working double shifts as a nurse to put me through college, her hands cracked and dry from constant washing. "Education is the only thing they can't take from you," she'd say while helping me with homework after her sixteen-hour days.

My father leaving when I was seven had only strengthened her resolve that I would never need to depend on anyone. "Stand on your own two feet, baby girl," she'd counsel. "Make your own way."

And I've tried. God, I've tried.

I remember my first corporate internship during junior year, showing up in a suit I'd saved for months to buy, only to be mistaken for the coffee girl. The way senior executives would talk over me in meetings. The hints that my natural hair wasn't "professional enough." The endless stream of microaggressions wrapped in smiles and backhanded compliments.

"You're so articulate."

"You don't sound like you're from the Bronx."

"You're not what we expected."

I'd learned to swallow my anger, to smile and nod, to work twice as hard while appearing half as threatening. I'd learned the elaborate dance required to advance without making others uncomfortable with my ambition.

My mother's latest medical bills flash in my mind—the arthritis in her hands worsening, making it difficult for her to continue nursing. My promise to take care of her once I "made it" feels increasingly hollow with each passing month at Henderson.

This Northbridge position could change everything. Not just for me, but for her too.

I complete the application with renewed determination, triple-checking for errors before hovering my cursor over the submit button. I take a deep breath and click.

The confirmation screen appears: "Thank you for your application to Northbridge Financial."

A rush of satisfaction flows through me, followed immediately by a jolt of recognition. Northbridge Financial. CEO position. Why does this feel suddenly familiar?

I grab my phone and pull up Instagram, scrolling through Miranda's profile. There it is—a photo from six months ago: Miranda in a sleek cocktail dress with her arm around her father at some charity gala. The caption reads: "Proud daughter moment when Dad wins CEO of the Year! #NorthbridgeFinancial #PowerMoves."

"Holy shit," I whisper, staring at Evan Franklin's distinguished face.

Miranda's dad. The man I'd met a handful of times during college when he'd visit campus or take us to dinner. Always charming, always impeccably dressed, always exuding that quiet power that seemed to bend the world to his will.

The CEO of Northbridge Financial is Evan Franklin—Miranda's father.

My mind races. Would this connection help or hurt my chances? Nepotism is real, but so is the awkwardness of mixing personal and professional. Still, I can't deny the flutter of hope in my chest. This might be the edge I need—a familiar face at the top who might actually see me for my abilities.

"This could actually work," I murmur, allowing myself a moment of optimism. Landing this job would be the game-changer I've been waiting for—the opportunity to prove myself in a company where the ceiling might actually be breakable.

I pick up my coffee, now cold, and take a sip anyway. The bitter taste matches the determination settling in my bones. I want this job, connection or not. And I'm going to get it.