Chapter 1

Chapter One

Emily

I hadn't ever really thought about what desperate circumstances meant until I found myself in them. I had never found any signs, in my mind or — much more urgently — in my body, of the kind of desperation I now experienced, sitting at my desk in the customer service department of Crescent Solutions.

It was late on a Friday afternoon — so late, in fact, that my supervisor had already left for the day. The office hummed with low fluorescent light, and outside the rain drizzled down onto the outskirts of London, making the air even more stiflingly warm than usual.

A cold wind blew in my heart, though. It seemed like I could feel the chill all the way in the pit of my stomach.

My fingers hovered over the Enter key.

I glanced around nervously. No one else seemed interested in me or my screen. My pulse pounded in my temples.

I pressed the key.

The software asked if I wished to proceed. Did I want to transfer five hundred thousand pounds from the corporate account that had been created in error to my personal checking account?

Yes. All I had to do was press Enter again. That account didn't exist: the money wouldn't be noticed by anyone but me. I could say… I could say my finger slipped.

With a soft click from the keyboard, the transfer completed and, somewhere in the cybernetic ether, my account balance surged. I felt a strange mix of relief and guilt, my fingers trembling as I minimized the browser window. The weight of my actions settled on my shoulders, a heavy burden it seemed unlikely I would ever shake off.

The office suddenly felt suffocating, as if the air were full of what seemed the almost-detectable scent of my transgression. My heart raced, each beat a reminder of what I had done. I glanced around furtively, half-expecting alarms to blare or security guards to burst through the doors. But the monotonous hum of computers and the distant chatter of my coworkers continued undisturbed.

I stood up abruptly, my chair squeaking against the linoleum floor. A few heads turned my way, and I forced a weak smile, mumbling something about needing fresh air. As I made my way to the exit, every step felt like wading through quicksand.

Outside, the London drizzle had intensified into a steady rain. I had forgotten my umbrella, but I didn't care. I let the cool droplets soak into my hair and clothes. The water mingled with the sweat on my brow, washing away the physical evidence of my nervousness, if not the emotional turmoil.

I walked aimlessly, my mind a whirlwind of justifications and fears. I couldn't just run away to a tropical island, now, obviously: that would indicate guilt much more surely even than someone detecting the transfer.

As I wandered through the rain-slicked streets my mind drifted back to the circumstances that had brought me here. The irony of my situation wasn't lost on me. I had come to England to escape the oppressive corporate laws of America, only to find myself embroiled in a new web of corporate deceit.

I remembered the day I decided to leave, the day the punishing weight of the American corporate state had pressed down on me just an inch too far. The words on the drugstore receipt remained burned into my memory: Selecta scientists recommend oral contraception for sexually active young women.

I had only lost my virginity the night before, to a worthless, forgettable guy. I had made him use a condom, but that morning, I had searched the net for information about Plan B , just as something I should know about — especially because the conversation about the condom had felt so difficult.

At the sight of the words — the "recommendation" — on the receipt, heat had filled my face up to the roots of my hair. The laws taking away pretty much all privacy protection, that had once seemed like a distant concern, had become an inescapable reality, their tendrils reaching into every aspect of our lives. And at the center of it all lay Selecta Corporation, the prime mover behind the adoption of those draconian measures — and the home of the scientists who had known that I had just become sexually active.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips, muffled by the patter of rain. How clever I had thought myself, using Selecta — the very architect of my oppression — as my ticket to freedom. I had worked for Crescent, a minor Selecta subsidiary, for one week in New York before I had applied for a position with their UK branch, leveraging my skills and experience to secure the transfer.

Transfer. Like the fund transfer I had just made, a stupid idea in hindsight. What had I done, in either case? Three months in London, barely making ends meet. No corporate laws, but also none of the corporate subsidies Selecta gave their American employees. Freedom — but freedom to live a life of poverty and isolation.

The streets of London blurred around me, the gray buildings and muted colors a stark contrast to the vibrant, neon-lit corporate district I had left behind. Here, the influence of the megacorps — of Selecta, above all, world's largest corporation — felt more subtle, but no less pervasive. I had traded an overt form of corporate oppression for a more cryptic one, thinking myself so smart, so cunning.

Then, an hour ago, in frustration, I had… not stolen , really, because money that didn't exist couldn't be stolen, right? Not embezzled , either, because that was a kind of stealing. Hadn't I actually created that money, from a certain perspective, when I transferred it from the phantom account to my own?

I bit my lip as I turned my footsteps towards the tube station and began my long commute home. From one dreary outskirt of London to another, back to the spartan studio apartment that Crescent human resources had grudgingly helped me find.

Monday morning found me back at my desk at Crescent, working on the logistics for a construction project in Dover. I hadn't touched the money in my checking account, even to pay the credit card bill that came due tomorrow. I told myself I would wait until the last moment, as if I had no idea the enormous deposit had been made.

I hit send on an email, and I heard someone clear their throat behind me. My heart pounded in my chest as I looked over my shoulder and saw Sarah Pierce standing there. She was looking for me, of course: she said my name before I could even complete the pivot of my head and shoulders.

"Emily," Miss Pierce said, her eyes narrowing. "Could you come into my office for a moment?"

It took all my willpower to rise from my desk, and then to follow her towards her office door. Somehow I managed it, though, and when I stepped through the doorway I found myself actually smiling feebly — trying to disarm the beautiful woman frowning at me, not even thinking about how weak and foolish my face must look to her.

Sarah Pierce, Crescent's Selecta corporate liaison, wasn't more than two or three years older than I was, but she still seemed much more like a grownup to me. It wasn't so much that she looked older than, say, twenty-five: more that she carried herself with a kind of authority that made her seem utterly unapproachable. Her high cheekbones gave her face a sculpted quality, especially because she wore very light makeup. The skirt-suit she had on must have cost thousands of pounds — maybe tens of thousands — and it suited the lean lines of her body perfectly.

"What is it?" I asked. To my horror, my voice came out barely louder than a whisper.

"I'd like to talk to you about what happened Friday."

The way she said it should have turned my blood to ice, but instead it only made my face tingle. I wanted to look down at the carpet, but I knew that would only make me blush harder, so I held her gaze as best I could.

"What… what do you mean?" I asked.

Miss Pierce frowned more deeply.

"You know what I mean, Emily. We're going to need to discuss how you're going to remedy the situation."

"The…"

Her words hung in the air between us for an uncomfortable few seconds. My mind raced, scrambling desperately to find some explanation that might help me save face, or at least avoid having to put into words what I had done. Nothing came, though.

"The situation?" I tried again, raising my eyebrows in what I hoped looked like innocent curiosity.

She sighed.

"I don't want to embarrass you, Emily. You've been here for three months now, and we know how hard you've been working. You can imagine how disappointed we felt when we heard about this foolish thing you did."

"But…"

Her mention of the length of time I had spent in London brought everything crashing back down around me, despite my instinctive protestation. My stomach churned, seeming suddenly to remember how little food I had eaten since arriving in England. I hadn't realized it until that moment, but not having enough money to afford much more than pasta and tomato sauce had taken a toll.

"At first," Miss Pierce went on, "we couldn't believe it. When they flagged your transfer, we thought it must be a mistake."

"They…"

What was I supposed to say? What could I possibly reply? They who?

I swallowed hard, fighting against the urge to hyperventilate. A thin layer of sweat broke out on my forehead and upper lip.

"My bank?" I suggested lamely.

"That's right. Our software has all kinds of safeguards built in — I won't bore you with the details, but they recognized that something unusual was happening. So they contacted their counterparts in the UK, and those people got in touch with our team here."

"And they told you…." I started, but my voice trailed off.

"That's correct. And we looked into it. As you almost certainly already understand, the company is responsible for making good on the money you transferred, because the account was created in error by our system."

"No!" I protested weakly. "No, I… I mean it's not…"

"It's not your fault," Miss Pierce finished for me, nodding. "That's true, Emily. We agree with you on that point. But we also think it's clear you understood what you were doing."

Once more I opened my mouth, but no words emerged.

"Why don't you sit down?" she continued after another pause. "I'll explain what happens next. There are options, you see. You might think the company will press charges, but there are other ways for you to deal with this."

A floral scent filled my nostrils as I took a sharp breath: I realized it must be Miss Pierce's perfume. Inexplicably, the fragrance seemed to make my knees go wobbly; something about its subtle combination of flowers and spice sent a message straight to my brain, bypassing whatever tiny rational part of my mind I had left.

As she closed the door behind me, the soft click of the latch echoed in my ears like a thunderclap. I felt trapped, cornered, as if the walls of Miss Pierce's office were closing in around me. The room, which had always seemed spacious and airy during my brief visits, felt suffocatingly small. The modern art pieces adorning the walls, once intriguing, seemed to mock me with their abstract swirls and splashes of color.

My legs felt like jelly as I lowered myself into the sleek, ergonomic chair in front of Miss Pierce's desk. I gripped the armrests, my knuckles turning visibly white, as if they were the only things anchoring me to reality.

Miss Pierce glided around her desk with effortless grace, her heels clicking softly on the polished hardwood floor. She settled into her high-backed chair, the very picture of corporate authority. The afternoon light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind her cast a halo around her silhouette, adding to her already intimidating presence.

Her eyes, sharp and penetrating behind thin-rimmed glasses, locked onto mine. I felt exposed, vulnerable, as if she could see right through me, past my feeble attempts at deception and straight to the core of my guilt.

"Emily," Miss Pierce began, her voice a mixture of disappointment and something else I couldn't quite place, something that suggested a certain strange excitement, "I want you to understand the gravity of your situation." She paused, letting her words settle over me like a heavy blanket. "What you've done is a serious offense. Embezzlement, even if unintentional, carries severe consequences."

I felt my throat constrict, a lump forming that threatened to choke me. The room seemed to spin slightly, the modern art on the walls blurring into a kaleidoscope of accusatory colors.

"Normally," she continued, her green eyes never leaving mine, "this would result in immediate termination and criminal charges. Five years in prison, at minimum." She let that sink in, and I felt the blood drain from my face. Five years . The words echoed in my head, each repetition hammering home the reality of my situation.

Miss Pierce leaned forward, her elbows resting on the polished surface of her desk. "However," she said, her tone shifting slightly, "Selecta believes in second chances, especially for young women like yourself who have… shall we say, lost their way."

I blinked, confusion momentarily overriding my fear. "Second chances?" I echoed weakly.

"Yes, Emily. We have an alternative program that might be more… beneficial for someone in your position." She reached into a drawer and pulled out a sleek tablet, tapping it a few times before sliding it across to me.

I stared at the tablet, my vision blurring as I tried to focus on the screen. The words "Rehabilitation Program for Non-Violent Female Offenders" stood out in bold letters at the top of the document. My heart raced as I skimmed through the paragraphs, phrases like "strict discipline," "behavioral modification," and "intensive rehabilitation" jumping out at me.

Miss Pierce's voice cut through my growing panic. "It's usually just called the Bad Girl Program. It's designed for young women like yourself, Emily. Girls who have demonstrated a clear inability to function as responsible adults in society."

I looked up, my mouth dry. "But I… I'm not…"

"Not what, Emily?" Miss Pierce's tone was sharp, cutting me off. "Not a bad girl? I think we both know that's not true. Your actions speak louder than your words. Embezzlement is just the latest in a pattern of behavior that shows you're not ready for the responsibilities of adulthood."

She stood up, walking around the desk to stand beside me. I could smell her perfume again, that intoxicating blend of floral and spice. It made my head swim.

"The program is harsh, I won't lie to you," she continued, her voice softer now but no less authoritative. "It involves a regression to childhood. You'll be treated as a little girl, with all the rules, restrictions, and punishments that entails."

I felt a hot flush creep up my neck and into my cheeks. "But I'm twenty-four," I protested.

"Twenty-four," Miss Pierce echoed, "is by no means too old to need a strict daddy's care."