Chapter 7 The Price of Starting Over
Amelia’s POV
I blocked the number before I could change my mind into thinking of going back in there to accept the offer. Before I could spiral into wondering what Daniel's exact words had been, what his tone had conveyed, whether he'd sighed or shrugged or felt anything at all.
My laptop screen glows in the darkness of my studio apartment, the only light source at two in the morning.
Thank you for your application. Unfortunately, we’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.
I deleted the email without reading the rest. It’s the fourteenth rejection this week, each one a variation of the same polite dismissal.
My cursor hovers over the next job posting—receptionist at a dental office, minimum wage, no benefits. I click anyway, filling out the same information I’ve entered twenty times before.
Employment History: 2019-2022.
The three-year gap stares back at me. Sterling Household Manager sounds pretentious. Homemaker sounds outdated. A professional wife is honest but unmarketable.
I leave it blank and hit submit.
The apartment feels smaller at night. Harper went home hours ago after forcing me to eat something that wasn’t instant noodles, leaving behind encouraging sticky notes plastered around the space.
“You’re stronger than you think!” on the bathroom mirror.
“His loss, your gain!” in the refrigerator.
“Today’s tears water tomorrow’s garden!” on the window, which is sweet but makes me want to cry harder.
My phone buzzes. Another email notification.
We appreciate your interest, but your qualifications don’t align with our current needs.
Translation: three years out of the workforce makes me damaged goods. Too educated for service positions, too inexperienced for anything else. The gap in my resume screams kept woman to everyone who sees it.
I close my laptop harder than necessary. The rejection emails have started feeling personal, like each one is confirmation that I’m exactly what those women in the lobby said—desperate, foolish, out of my depth.
My mother’s contact flashes on my phone for the third time today. I send it to voicemail again, unable to face the conversation I know is coming. Evelyn called the penthouse yesterday and got disconnected numbers. She’ll be panicking now, imagining worst-case scenarios.
But I can’t tell her the truth yet. Can’t say “I’m divorced and broke and living in a shoebox” to the woman who spent three years telling everyone her daughter had married well, had been saved, had escaped the poverty that nearly drowned us both.
The refrigerator hums in the corner, its interior depressingly bare. Two packs of ramen, some yogurt, and Harper’s leftover Thai food from three days ago. My stomach growls, but I’ve already eaten my one meal today.
I need to make my money last. Need to stretch every dollar until something—anything—comes through.
I stare at my savings account from another browser tab: $847.23. Two months of rent, maybe three if I stop eating regularly. After that, I’ll be exactly where I was at nineteen—drowning, desperate, watching everything fall apart in slow motion.
No. I won’t think like that. I survived before. I’ll survive again.
I open a new job site, scrolling through postings I’ve already rejected as beneath my education, my experience, my dignity. But dignity doesn’t pay rent. Pride doesn’t fill empty stomachs.
I clicked on a server position at an upscale restaurant. The irony isn’t lost on me—full circle back to where Daniel found me, wine-stained and apologizing.
The application asks for references. I stare at the blank fields, my mind going empty. Who can I list? Harper, who’s barely keeping her photography business afloat? My mother, who’s been unemployed for years? Daniel’s name appears in my head, and I almost laugh at the absurdity.
Reference: Ex-husband who discarded me. Can confirm I’m excellent at being invisible.
I close that tab too.
The clock ticks past two-thirty. My eyes burn from screen glare, but sleep feels impossible. Every time I close my eyes, I see divorce papers and hear cruel laughter and feel the weight of my own foolishness pressing down like a physical thing.
My phone rings, shattering the silence.
Unknown number. Probably spam. I almost declined it, then remembered that jobs sometimes call from blocked numbers.
“Hello?” My voice comes out scratchy from disuse.
“Mrs. Sterling?” A man’s voice, smooth and professional, with an edge of something I can’t identify. “I hope I’m not calling too late.”
My hand tightens around my phone. “It’s Ms. Hart, actually. And it’s after one in the morning, so yes, it’s late.”
“My apologies.” He doesn’t sound apologetic. “My name is Nathan Cole. I’m the CFO of Sterling Holdings.”
I almost hung up. My finger hovers over the end button.
“Before you disconnect,” he continues quickly, “I’m not calling on Daniel’s behalf. I’m calling because I know you’re job hunting, and I have some advice that might help.”
“How do you…” I stop myself. Of course he knows. Nathan was always at the penthouse for business dinners, strategy sessions, the endless meetings that consumed Daniel’s life. He probably knows exactly what happened, exactly how pathetic I am.
“Your resume,” Nathan says, his voice gentler now. “You’re marketing yourself all wrong. Three years managing a high-profile household, coordinating complex schedules, hosting business dinners, maintaining absolute discretion—those are executive-level skills, Amelia. But you’re applying for receptionist positions.”
“I don’t have corporate experience,” I manage. “The gap in my resume…”
“Is only a problem if you frame it as one.” Papers rustle in the background. “Listen, I know someone. James Hartwell, CEO of Hartwell & Associates. Mid-tier investment firm, good reputation. He’s looking for an executive assistant, and I think you’d be perfect for it.”
“I don’t want charity.” The words come out sharper than I intended.
“This isn’t charity.” Nathan sounds almost amused. “Hartwell’s last three assistants quit because he’s demanding and particular. You survived three years managing Daniel Sterling’s life. Trust me, you’re overqualified.”
Despite everything, I almost smile at that.
“I can put in a word,” Nathan continues. “Get you an interview. What you do with it is up to you. But Amelia?” He pauses. “Stop selling yourself short. You’re capable of so much more than you’re giving yourself credit for.”
My throat tightens. “Why are you doing this?”
Nathan is silent for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice has lost its professional edge.
“Because I argued against the divorce. Because I watched you give everything to a marriage that Daniel took for granted. Because someone needs to help you, and I’m in a position to do it.” He clears his throat. “And because my friend is making the biggest mistake of his life, and I refuse to be complicit in watching you pay the price for his cowardice.”
I press my free hand against my mouth, fighting back the emotion threatening to spill over.
“I’ll email you Hartwell’s contact information,” Nathan says, professional again. “Tell him I referred you. He owes me a favor, so he’ll at least give you a fair interview. After that, it’s all you.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Don’t thank me yet. Just promise me something.” He pauses. “Whatever you’ve been telling yourself about being unqualified or unemployable? Stop. You’re one of the most capable people I’ve ever met. It’s time you remembered that.”
He hangs up before I can respond.
I stand in my dark apartment, phone pressed to my chest, trying to process what just happened. Not a job offer—just a referral, a chance, a door slightly opened. What I do with it is up to me.
My laptop still glows on the futon. I open it, and sure enough, there’s already an email from Nathan with James Hartwell’s contact information and a brief note: “Mention my name. Be yourself. You’ve got this.”
I stare at the email for a long time, then open my closet to look at Harper’s borrowed interview suit hanging in the corner.
Monday. I’d call tomorrow. Try to set up an interview for Monday.
But I couldn’t think about that now. I couldn’t let myself spiral into what it would mean when the world finally knew I was no longer Mrs. Sterling, that I had failed at the one thing I was expected to do—keep my marriage intact.
I set an alarm for eight, giving myself enough time to rehearse what I’d say when I called Hartwell’s office.
The phone screen went dark as a knock sounded at the door.
