The granite steps of the library were cold, but the park bench was worse.I didn't remember being moved. The transition from the library floor to the hard, damp wooden slats of a bench in Bryant Park was a blur of rough hands and the smell of wet pavement. I was drifting in a feverish, semi-conscious state where the line between reality and memory had dissolved entirely.I was back at the gala.The air was warm and smelled of expensive cedarwood and roasted lamb. My father was standing at the head of the table, his hand resting on Marcus’s shoulder. They were laughing—a rich, deep sound that felt like it was made of gold coins. In front of me was a plate of Wagyu steak, the juices shimmering under the crystal chandeliers. I reached for a fork, my mouth watering with a desperation that felt like fire.But as my finger

The laughter of the film crew felt like a physical assault, a wave of noise that echoed off the polished glass of the Meatpacking District’s boutiques. I stood at the edge of the set, my feet burning in those neon green shoes, the glare of the industrial reflectors making my eyes water. Marcus was halfway back to his director’s chair, but he stopped, a sudden, "generous" thought seemingly crossing his mind."Wait, wait," Marcus called out, turning back with a flourish. "I'm being rude. I forgot that the Bakar family is known for its philanthropy."He reached into the pocket of his cream-colored trousers and pulled out a designer wallet. With two fingers, he extracted a crisp, twenty-dollar bill. He held it up, letting the morning sun catch the green ink. The crew went silent, sensing another performance."You look like you haven't eaten since the da