“I’m not offering you an entry-level position,” Adrienne said, folding her hands on the closed folder. “I’m offering you a place on the team that will build the routing system your thesis just outlined. But before you answer, I need to understand something.” She slid a printed page across the table toward me. It was a copy of my own bank statement, the one tied to the account my father controlled, pulled as part of the background check every candidate consented to. Her finger rested on a single line. “This account has your name on it, but the withdrawals don’t match your work hours. Someone else is moving your money. I’ve seen this pattern before, Miss Hartley, and I need to know whether the person we hire is free to make her own decisions.”

My face went hot. I had spent so long hiding the safety pins, the borrowed suit, the empty wallet, and now the one thing I’d been most ashamed of was sitting in the open on a mahogany table in front of six strangers. But Adrienne wasn’t looking at me with pity. She was looking at me the way you look at someone you’ve already decided to invest in. “The salary for this role,” she continued, “is ninety-four thousand dollars a year. And it will be paid into an account that only you can touch. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”