The Italian marble floor of the Rosenbergs'' game room is cold against Hannah Marshall''s legs, even through her thrifted Levi''s. Ten thousand dollars of stone, and they let their kids spill Capri Sun on it. She shifts, crossing her ankles, and watches Tommy''s thumbs dance across the controller like he''s conducting a tiny orchestra.
Tommy Rosenberg is actually trying today. His cherubic face—all Renaissance angel with that white-blonde hair and those startling blue eyes—is scrunched in concentration. The light from their obscenely large TV (who needs 85 inches to play Mario Kart?) catches on his eyelashes, turning them into little halos.
Hannah knows she should let him win. It''s in the unwritten babysitter''s handbook, somewhere between "never feed them after midnight" and "always text when you arrive safely." But her own thumbs itch with muscle memory. She could destroy him in this race. Could lap him twice if she wanted to.
She doesn''t.
Because that''s not what the Rosenbergs are paying her $30 an hour for. The highest-paying babysitting gig in Riverside, and all she has to do is lose at video games and occasionally load the dishwasher with Mrs. Rosenberg''s limited edition Le Creuset cookware. Well, that and navigate the minefield that is existing in the same solar system as Amber Rosenberg.
Amber. Hannah''s mouth twists as she thinks about Tommy''s older sister, the self-proclaimed Princess of Riverside High. The girl who treats the school hallways like her personal runway, click-clacking down them in whatever Louboutins Daddy''s guilt bought her this week. Hannah''s seen literal crowns that require less maintenance than Amber''s blonde hair—expertly highlighted, religiously trimmed, permanently cascading in waves that probably cost more than Hannah''s car.
Where Tommy is all genuine smiles and sticky fingers, Amber is sharp edges wrapped in cashmere. She moves through life with an entourage of giggling sycophants, girls who''ve elevated agreement to an art form. "Oh my god, Amber, you''re so right!" has its own spot in the Riverside High lexicon.
And then there''s Nate Brooks.
Hannah''s heart does that stupid little flutter it''s been doing since third grade when she thinks about him. Star wide receiver, co-captain of the football team, and the only person who can make a letterman jacket look like it belongs on a Paris runway. His brown eyes still hold traces of the boy who once shared his fruit roll-ups with her at lunch, before social hierarchy calcified and her middle-class status became a visible brand.
Sometimes, when he comes over to pick up Amber for whatever luxury-car-filled adventure they''re having that day, he still smiles at Hannah like he remembers those fruit roll-ups too. His wavy brown hair falls across his forehead in exactly the same way it did when they were eight, but now it makes her palms sweat instead of inspiring the urge to pull it.
"I won!" Tommy''s victory screech pulls her back to the present. On screen, his character does a victory lap while hers sits sadly in sixth place. The race she threw is worth it for the way his whole face lights up, gap-toothed smile nearly splitting it in two.
"You''re getting really good at this," Hannah says, and means it. Even if she helped him along, his thumbwork is improving. She ruffles his hair, and he doesn''t dodge away like most eight-year-olds would. Another way he''s nothing like his sister, who treats physical affection like it might mess up her contour.
The grandfather clock in the hall (because of course the Rosenbergs have a grandfather clock) chimes four times. Hannah knows without looking that it''s precisely on time—it''s synchronized with an atomic clock in Colorado, a fact Mr. Rosenberg shared with the same pride other dads reserve for their kids'' report cards.
"Math time," Hannah announces, and Tommy''s joy deflates faster than his mom''s last attempt at soufflé. "Come on, buddy. Calc won''t solve itself."
He trails her to the kitchen like it''s his last march. The Rosenbergs'' idea of a kitchen is what most people would call a restaurant. All gleaming surfaces and professional-grade everything—a Viking range that could heat a small country, three ovens (because God forbid you have to wait to bake multiple things), and countertops that probably cost more than Hannah''s college fund. The whole space is wrapped in floor-to-ceiling windows that make the backyard look like a magazine spread: infinity pool bleeding into carefully manicured gardens, a pool house bigger than Hannah''s first floor.
Tommy slumps into one of the ghost chairs at the breakfast bar—transparent acrylic that probably has some fancy Italian designer name and definitely costs more than Hannah''s car payment. She spreads out his homework, trying not to think about how the marble countertop is cooler than most people''s personalities at Riverside High.
Twenty minutes into fractions (which Tommy understands better than he pretends to), Hannah''s bladder starts sending urgent memos. She pats Tommy''s shoulder. "Keep working on number seven. I''ll be right back."
The guest bathroom off the main hall is basically a spa—heated floors, a waterfall faucet that probably has better water pressure than most fire hoses. But before Hannah can reach it, Amber''s voice slices through the air like an expertly wielded credit card.
Hannah freezes. The thing about surviving in the Rosenbergs'' world is knowing when to make yourself invisible. She''s gotten good at it—better than she is at calculus, better than she is at pretending her dad''s insurance job can compete with trust funds.
"That little bitch," Amber''s voice carries down the curved staircase, sharp as her last manicure. "Lisa Chen thinks she can just—"
Hannah''s heart trips over itself. Lisa Chen. The name hits like a punch to the gut, serving up a highlight reel of shared lunches and sleepovers from before high school turned everyone into characters in some twisted social hierarchy play.
Lisa''s parents still wave when they see Hannah at their restaurant, still slip her extra dumplings with that same warm smile. But Lisa? Lisa traded their history for a spot in Amber''s orbit, choosing designer bags over inside jokes.
Hannah slips off her Converse, padding up the stairs like she''s diffusing a bomb. Each step brings Amber''s voice into sharper focus. She''s on speaker, probably with Susan Lawrence—another old money princess who treats kindness like an optional accessory.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
"She''s literally throwing herself at him," Amber spits. "And Nate''s so—god, he''s actually falling for it. Like, hello? She''s basically a waitress."
Hannah edges closer, until she can see into Amber''s room. It''s like Barbie''s Dream House had a baby with a Saks Fifth Avenue—all pink and white, with a chandelier that probably cost more than most cars. Amber''s sprawled on her king-sized bed in a pink La Perla robe, phone propped on her mirrored desk while she paints her toenails the exact shade of red that screams ''I''ve never worked retail.''
"Don''t worry," Susan''s voice crackles through the speaker, filtered through whatever overpriced phone Amber''s using this week. "We''ll handle it."
Amber''s laugh sounds like breaking glass. "Oh, I know exactly what to do. By next week, Lisa Chen will wish she''d stayed in her lane. And Nate?" She blows on her toes, casual as a bomb threat. "Please. He''ll remember where he belongs.."
"Did you see them at lunch?" Susan''s voice drips with the kind of faux concern that comes with a lifetime of learning how to weaponize sympathy. "The way she kept touching his arm? God, it''s like watching someone try to shoplift from Bergdorf''s."
"Right?" Amber switches toes, the red polish gleaming like fresh blood. "And that thing she did with the college applications? ''Oh Nate, which schools are you looking at?''" Her impression of Lisa is a masterclass in calculated cruelty. "Like, honey, the only ivy you''ll ever touch is the kind growing on your parents'' takeout place."
Hannah''s fingers dig into the bannister. She should walk away. Should get back to Tommy and his fractions and the safe, clean lines of mathematics where everything adds up the way it''s supposed to.
"Whatever," Amber continues, examining her work with the kind of scrutiny usually reserved for diamond authentication. "I''ve got the perfect thing planned for Friday''s party. Little Lisa wants to play in the big leagues?" Her smile is all teeth, no warmth. "Let''s see how she handles the deep end."
Susan''s giggle sounds like champagne bubbles, expensive and empty. "You''re literally evil. I love it."
"Please, I''m just maintaining the natural order. I mean, Nate and I? We''re basically Riverside royalty. He''s just... temporarily distracted. You know how boys get when someone new waves some diversity in their face."
"So what''s the plan?"
"Let''s just say..." Amber recaps the polish with the decisive click of a safety being released. "I found some interesting texts on Nate''s phone the other day. And if certain screenshots happened to show up at exactly the right moment... well." She shrugs, the silk of her robe whispering against Egyptian cotton sheets. "I''m just looking out for everyone''s best interests."
"God, you''re perfect," Susan breathes. "What time''s he picking you up?"
"Five. Nobu, obviously." Amber''s voice shifts, practiced casualness wrapped around a core of steel. "By tomorrow morning, Nate Brooks will be right back where he belongs. In my arms, where things make sense."
"Like there was ever any doubt." Susan''s laugh is a sterling silver wind chime. "The Lisa Chens of the world don''t get the Nate Brookses. That''s like, literally physics."
"Exactly." Amber''s voice drops to a whisper coated in arsenic honey. "And after Friday night? Let''s just say some people need to be reminded what happens when they forget their place in the ecosystem."
Hannah''s heard enough. Her stomach churns with the kind of nausea usually reserved for watching car crashes in slow motion. Poor Lisa. Poor Nate. Both of them caught in Amber''s carefully manicured web, like couture-wrapped flies about to learn exactly how sharp designer stilettos can be.
She creeps backward, one silent sock-step at a time. The marble stairs are cold through her socks, each step a tactical retreat from ground zero of whatever social nuclear bomb Amber''s about to detonate.
Except.
Her shoes.
Her ratty, beloved Converse that should be right here at the bottom of the stairs, waiting like loyal soldiers. Gone. Vanished like her chances of ever affording a Rosenberg-approved wardrobe.
"Looking for something?"
The world stops spinning.
Time freezes like a glitch in the matrix.
Because there''s Nate Brooks, holding her shoes with the kind of casual grace that makes letterman jackets look like Gucci campaigns. No BROOKS 67 jersey today. No Friday night lights armor. Just khakis that probably cost more than her car insurance, pristine white sneakers that have never known the inside of a Payless box, and a quarter-zip pullover in the exact shade of brown that makes his eyes look like something worth drowning in.
His hair''s doing that thing. That stupidly perfect wavy thing that makes her hands itch with muscle memory from third grade.
"I—" Words evaporate like department store perfume samples.
His smirk should be illegal in at least forty-eight states. "These yours?" He dangles the Converse like evidence in a very specific crime.
Hannah prays to whatever deity handles footwear embarrassment that they don''t smell like minimum wage and desperation.
But before she can stammer out an explanation that doesn''t include ''I was eavesdropping on your girlfriend''s assassination plans,'' Tommy barrels down the hall like a heat-seeking missile of pure joy.
"Nate!" He launches himself with the kind of blind faith only eight-year-olds and base jumpers possess.
Nate catches him mid-flight, swinging him up like Tommy weighs nothing more than Amber''s latest designer bag. "Hey, champ!" The transformation is instant—golden boy to big brother, complete with the kind of genuine smile that never makes it onto Riverside High''s Instagram stories.
"I beat Hannah at Mario Kart!" Tommy announces it like he''s declaring victory at the Olympics.
Nate''s eyes find hers over Tommy''s head. That smirk again. "Did you now?"
Hannah''s face burns hotter than the La Mer moisturizer Amber''s probably applying upstairs. Because of course Nate Brooks would know exactly what it means to let an eight-year-old win at video games. Of course he''d see right through her like she''s one of the Rosenbergs'' imported crystal windows.
He must read something in her face—panic, probably, or the desperate need to escape before Amber descends like a Valentino-clad valkyrie. His expression softens into something that makes her heart do illegal gymnastics.
"Hey buddy," he sets Tommy down with the gentleness usually reserved for handling Ming vases. "Better finish that homework. I''ll check it when I come back down, okay?"
Tommy zooms back to the kitchen like homework''s suddenly become his favorite hobby.
"I should—" Hannah gestures vaguely at nothing.
"Here." He holds out her shoes like he''s Prince Charming''s cooler younger brother. The one who probably plays in an indie band and reads Vonnegut for fun.
"Are you going to—" The words stick in her throat like last season''s trends.
"Tell her?" He cuts her off with a shake of his head. Wavy brown hair catches the light like a shampoo commercial. "No."
She takes the shoes, careful not to let their fingers brush like some budget rom-com meet-cute.
He stands, unfolds himself to his full height—all six feet of carefully cultivated athletic grace. "Nice shirt, by the way."
Hannah glances down at her vintage Sonic Youth tee, probably bought for two dollars at Goodwill. The kind of thing that would give Amber hives.
When she looks up, he''s already halfway up the stairs, taking her ability to form coherent sentences with him.
The shirt was his favorite band in eighth grade. Before designer labels became personality traits. Before social hierarchy calcified into law. Before Amber Rosenberg turned dating into a blood sport.
"Hi, princess." Nate''s voice drifts down from above, smooth as twenty-year-old scotch, practiced as a trust fund apology.
Above her, a door opens. Amber''s laughter cascades down the stairs like expensive perfume - the kind that costs more than Hannah''s monthly car payment. Hannah slips her shoes on and disappears - a skill she''s perfected almost as well as losing at Mario Kart.
Some things you learn to survive. Others you learn because forgetting would hurt more than remembering.