Chapter 1

The lobby of the Cantrall & Co. building smelled like lemon polish and expensive cologne—two things Malia Baker had never grown accustomed to, despite the number of afternoons she’d spent waiting here for her mother to finish typing up someone else’s life.

She sat on one of the sleek leather benches near the elevator banks, her knees pulled to her chest, phone clutched in both hands like a shield. Beside her, Ivory was scrolling through TikTok with the volume barely audible, occasionally letting out a sharp laugh that made Malia flinch.

“Can you—” Malia started.

“Sorry,” Ivory muttered, not looking up, already turning the volume down another notch.

Malia appreciated the gesture, even if it came without eye contact. At fifteen, Ivory had perfected the art of being simultaneously annoying and considerate—the little sister paradox.

The lobby was mostly empty now, the after-work rush having thinned to stragglers and workaholics. Floor-to-ceiling windows cast long rectangles of amber light across the marble floors. Malia watched a security guard make his rounds, his shoes squeaking with military precision.

She checked the time. 6:47 PM.

“Mom said she’d be down by six-thirty,” Malia said, more to herself than to Ivory.

“She’s with Alex,” Ivory replied, still absorbed in her screen. “You know how that goes.”

Malia did know. Julia Baker had been Alexander Cantrall’s executive assistant for three years, which meant she was technically off the clock at five but practically on-call until Alex decided he was done reshaping the world for the day. Malia had learned not to resent it—the job paid for their apartment, Ivory’s dance classes, Malia’s therapy co-pays. But sitting in this lobby, surrounded by the hollow echo of corporate wealth, she couldn’t help feeling like a trespasser in someone else’s kingdom.

She pulled up her group chat. Seven unread messages from Momo, each one escalating in panic because Malia hadn’t responded in forty minutes.

Momo: hello????
did you die
should i call the police
im calling the police
ok josh says thats dramatic but STILL
MALIA SIMPHIWE BAKER
i swear to god if you fell asleep in that lobby again

Malia smiled despite herself, thumbs moving quickly.

Malia: alive. mom’s still upstairs. kill me.

The response was instantaneous.

Momo: dramatic AND relatable. my brand.
Josh: girl we know you’re just reading smut in the corner somewhere
Morgan: leave her alone, she’s having her main character in a lobby moment
Dara: Has anyone eaten? Malia, have you eaten?
Freya: im at rehearsal but i read all of this and im invested now
MK: ivory there too?
Ivory: unfortunately yes. she’s being weird.
Malia: i’m not being weird.
Ivory: she’s being weird.

Malia was typing a retort when it happened.

She’d stood up to stretch her legs, planning to walk to the water fountain near the east corridor. She wasn’t watching where she was going—she never did, her anxiety somehow coexisting with a complete lack of spatial awareness. She took three steps, turned a corner too sharply, and collided with something solid and warm that smelled like cigarettes and vanilla.

Her phone clattered to the floor. She stumbled backward, arms windmilling, and would have fallen if two hands hadn’t caught her by the elbows.

“Shit—sorry, fuck, are you okay?”

The voice was low, slightly raspy, and undeniably amused.

Malia looked up.

And forgot how to breathe.

The girl holding her was tall—maybe five-nine—with broad shoulders and an easy athleticism that filled out her black bomber jacket like it had been tailored for her specifically. Her hair was a dark blonde mullet, longer in the back, shorter and slightly tousled on top, the kind of cut that shouldn’t have worked but absolutely did. She had sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes the color of whiskey caught in sunlight.

She was grinning, one corner of her mouth higher than the other, and there was a silver ring through her left eyebrow that caught the lobby light.

“Earth to—” The girl glanced down at the phone still clutched in Malia’s hand, screen cracked but illuminated. “—Malia? Your name’s Malia?”

Malia realized she was staring. She realized she was still being held. She realized her mouth was open.

“I—yeah. I mean. Yes. That’s me. Malia. I’m Malia.”

Smooth. Very smooth. Goodbye, dignity.

The girl’s grin widened. “Cool. I’m Kylie.” She didn’t let go of Malia’s elbows. If anything, her grip tightened slightly, thumbs brushing the inside of Malia’s arms in a way that sent electricity straight to her spine. “You always this graceful, Malia?”

“I—no. I mean, usually I’m worse. This is actually good for me. The not-falling.”

“High bar.”

“Extremely.”

Kylie laughed—a genuine, surprised sound that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “I like you. You’re funny.”

She likes me. She thinks I’m funny. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my—

“You’re not funny,” Ivory said, appearing at Malia’s side like a judgmental apparition. She picked up Malia’s phone, examined the cracked screen, and sighed the sigh of a younger sister who had suffered much. “She’s not funny. She’s having an anxiety spiral. She does this. Hi, I’m Ivory.”

Kylie finally released Malia—reluctantly, it seemed, her fingers dragging slowly down Malia’s arms before letting go completely. She turned to Ivory with the same easy charm. “Hey, Ivory. I’m Kylie. I was just making sure your sister didn’t concuss herself on this very expensive floor.”

“She’s dramatic,” Ivory said, which was rich coming from a fifteen-year-old who had once cried for three hours because her favorite pen ran out of ink.

“I’m not—” Malia started.

“She’s cute when she’s dramatic,” Kylie interrupted, and her eyes flicked back to Malia with an intensity that made Malia’s stomach flip. “Very cute.”

Malia felt her face heat up. She was probably the color of a tomato. A very anxious, very overwhelmed tomato.

“Are you here for someone?” Malia managed, because her therapist had taught her to ask questions when she didn’t know what to do with her hands. Or her heart. Or the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out and touch the silver ring in Kylie’s eyebrow.

“Yeah. My dad.” Kylie hooked her thumbs in her jacket pockets, rocking back on her heels. “He’s upstairs being a CEO or whatever. You?”

“Mom. She’s—” Malia gestured vaguely upward. “Assistant. To the CEO, actually. Julia Baker.”

Kylie’s eyebrows shot up. The silver ring caught the light again. “No shit. My dad’s Alex Cantrall.”

They stared at each other.

“That’s…” Malia started.

“Weird,” Kylie finished. “Yeah. Small fucking world.” But she was smiling, and there was something almost delighted in it, like this coincidence was a gift she’d been waiting to unwrap.

“So you’re the famous Kylie,” Ivory said, and Malia wanted to strangle her.

Kylie blinked. “Famous?”

“Ivory—” Malia warned.

“What? She is.” Ivory shrugged, utterly unbothered by her sister’s mortification. “Mom talks about you. Says you’re at UCLA, business major but you hate it. Says you skateboard, which is cool I guess. Says every girl on the west side has a crush on you, which is gross but also—” she gestured at Kylie, “—fair.”

“Ivory!” Malia’s voice came out strangled.

Kylie, to her credit, looked more amused than anything. She ran a hand through her mullet, pushing the longer strands back from her face. “Your mom’s got a big mouth.”

“She’s got a lot of mouths to feed,” Ivory deadpanned. “Speaking of, we’re supposed to be getting dinner. Mom’s taking forever. As usual.”

“Yeah, my dad too.” Kylie pulled out her own phone—a newer model, unscathed, with a cracked case that looked like it had survived actual combat. “He’s in some meeting about acquiring a tech startup. Boring as hell. I’ve been waiting for an hour.”

“So you decided to assault random girls in the lobby?” Ivory asked.

“Ivory, oh my god—”

“I prefer ‘collided with destiny,'” Kylie said smoothly, and her eyes found Malia’s again, and there was something there that made Malia’s breath catch. Something warm and wondering and terrifyingly sincere. “But sure. Assault works.”

Malia should have looked away. She knew she should have looked away. But Kylie was looking at her like she was the only person in this entire glass-and-steel building, like the rest of the world had faded to static, and Malia had never been looked at like that before. She’d been looked through, certainly. Looked past. Sometimes looked at with the kind of pitying concern that came with knowing she was “the anxious one,” “the quiet one,” “the girl who needs to come out of her shell.”

But Kylie was looking at her like she was already out. Like she was bright and visible and worth seeing.

“Destiny’s a strong word,” Malia whispered.

“Is it?” Kylie took a step closer. Then another. She was in Malia’s space now, close enough that Malia could smell that vanilla-cigarette scent again, close enough to see the faint freckles across her nose, close enough to count the silver rings on her fingers—three on her left hand, two on her right.

“Can I—” Kylie started, then stopped. She looked almost shy, which was absurd on someone with her confidence, her easy swagger. “Can I get your number? Since we’re apparently destined to keep running into each other. Literally.”

Malia’s hands were shaking. She pressed them against her thighs, hoping Kylie wouldn’t notice.

“I—yeah. Yes. Here.” She took her phone back from Ivory—who was watching this exchange with the focused attention of someone memorizing details for future blackmail—and pulled up her contacts. “What’s yours? I’ll text you.”

Kylie recited the number, and Malia typed it in with trembling fingers. She sent a text—a simple Hi, it’s Malia—and heard Kylie’s phone buzz in her jacket pocket.

Kylie didn’t check it. She was still watching Malia, still standing too close, still looking at her like she was something precious and unexpected.

“So,” Kylie said softly. “Malia.”

“So,” Malia echoed, just as soft.

“You got plans tonight?”

“Dinner. With my mom. And Ivory.”

“After that?”

Malia thought of her apartment, her bedroom with the fairy lights Momo had insisted on stringing up, the weighted blanket that had been a birthday gift from Morgan. She thought of her routine, her safety, her carefully constructed walls.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“Text me,” Kylie said. It wasn’t a demand. It was something gentler, something hopeful. “If you want. No pressure. But like—text me. I’d really like to hear from you.”

“I will,” Malia promised, and she meant it.

Kylie smiled, and it was different from her earlier grin—softer, more vulnerable. She reached out, and for a moment Malia thought she was going to touch her face, her hair, something intimate and terrifying. But Kylie’s hand stopped mid-air, hovering near Malia’s shoulder, and she laughed quietly at herself.

“Sorry. I just—you’re really fucking pretty, Malia. Like, unfairly pretty. I’m trying not to be weird about it but I’m definitely being weird about it.”

“You’re not weird,” Malia said, surprising herself. “I like it. The weird. I mean—you’re not weird. I just—” She took a breath. Took a risk. “Can I?”

“Can you what?”

Malia leaned in.

She’d never done anything like this before. She’d kissed exactly two people in her twenty years—Momo’s cousin at a middle school dance, which didn’t count, and a girl named Chloe at a party last year, which had been nice but forgettable, drowned in cheap vodka and louder music. She’d never initiated. She’d never wanted to, not like this, not with her heart hammering against her ribs and her hands still shaking and every instinct screaming at her to run, to hide, to be safe.

But Kylie smelled like vanilla and rebellion, and she was looking at Malia with such open, aching want, and Malia was so tired of being afraid.

She pressed her lips to Kylie’s cheek.

It was brief—just a moment, just a brush of lips against warm skin, close enough to feel the stubble Kylie hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. But Malia felt Kylie go very still, felt her inhale sharply, felt the tension in her shoulders like a coiled spring.

When Malia pulled back, Kylie’s hand had found hers. Their fingers intertwined without discussion, without hesitation, Kylie’s rings cool against Malia’s palm.

“Fuck,” Kylie breathed. “Okay. Wow. Hi.”

“Hi,” Malia whispered.

Kylie’s thumb traced circles on Malia’s knuckles. She didn’t let go. She seemed physically incapable of letting go, her grip shifting, adjusting, like she was memorizing the shape of Malia’s hand.

“I should—” Malia gestured vaguely with her free hand. “My mom. She’s probably coming down.”

“Yeah. My dad too.” But Kylie didn’t move. She was still touching Malia, still looking at her, still holding on like Malia was the only solid thing in a shifting world.

“Kylie,” someone called from across the lobby.

They both turned. A girl with long dark braids and an impatient expression was standing near the elevator banks, phone in hand, clearly having been searching for someone.

“Shar,” Kylie said, not releasing Malia’s hand. “One sec.”

“Your dad’s wrapping up,” the girl—Shar—called back. “He wants to know if you’re still getting dinner with him or if you’ve abandoned him for—” she squinted at Malia and Ivory, “—lobby strangers.”

“They’re not strangers,” Kylie said, and there was something fiercely protective in her tone that made Malia’s chest ache. “This is Malia. And Ivory. Their mom works for Dad.”

Shar’s eyebrows rose. She looked Malia up and down with the assessing gaze of a best friend since birth, the kind of gaze that had seen every bad decision and good intention. Whatever she saw must have passed some invisible test, because her expression softened into something almost approving.

“Well, Malia and Ivory,” Shar said, “your mom and her dad are apparently coming down together. So. You know. Prepare yourselves.”

“Shit,” Kylie and Malia said in unison.

They looked at each other and laughed, surprised, delighted.

“Jinx,” Kylie said.

“You owe me a soda,” Malia replied automatically, a childhood reflex.

“I owe you a lot more than that.” Kylie finally, finally released her hand—but only to pull out her phone, to check the text Malia had sent, to save her contact with a speed that suggested she was worried Malia might disappear. “Text me tonight. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“And Malia?”

“Yeah?”

Kylie’s grin returned, sharp and bright and devastating. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

She backed away, still facing Malia, still watching her, until she bumped into Shar and had to turn around. Malia heard Shar say something teasing, heard Kylie’s loud “fuck off, Shar,” and then they were gone, disappearing around a corner toward the private elevator that led to the executive floors.

Malia stood frozen, hand still warm from Kylie’s touch, heart still racing, world still tilted on its axis.

“Well,” Ivory said, breaking the silence with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “That happened.”

“Yeah,” Malia breathed. “That happened.”

“You’re in love.”

“I’m not—”

“You absolutely are. You kissed her. You never kiss anyone. You barely talk to anyone.” Ivory was grinning now, the same wicked grin she used when she was about to tell their mother something embarrassing. “I’m telling Mom.”

“Ivory, if you tell Mom, I will—”

“You’ll what? Have an anxiety attack? You’re already having one.” But Ivory’s voice was gentle, and she bumped her shoulder against Malia’s in something approximating affection. “I’m happy for you, weirdo. She seems cool. For a corporate princess.”

“She’s not—she’s at UCLA. She skateboards. She swears a lot.” Malia was aware she was rambling, aware that she was smiling like an idiot, aware that none of this made any sense and all of it felt inevitable. “Ivory. I can’t stop shaking.”

“That’s called being alive, Malia. Welcome to it.”

The elevator dinged.

Malia looked up to see her mother stepping out, Julia Baker in her sensible heels and her worn blazer, looking tired but relieved to see her daughters. Behind her came Alexander Cantrall—tall, silver-haired, impossibly polished—and beside him, already looking toward Malia with that same bright, wondering expression, was Kylie.

Their eyes met across the lobby.

Kylie touched her cheek, the exact spot where Malia had kissed her, and mouthed something that might have been text me or might have been hi again or might have been something else entirely, something Malia would spend the rest of the night deciphering.

Malia touched her own lips.

And smiled.

—

Heeeyyyyyyyyyyy…

To the Qt Army (You know who yall are) who have been wanting a storyy!!!

Here you goooooooooo