Page 18 of Even Beneath the Stars

"Meh." I shrug. "Still no beard."

This time we both laugh. Then I plop my face back into the cushion.

God—why am I even hesitating? It’sinsane.

This totally unique opportunity…

That salary…

And Finn…

A surge of anger bolts through me.Am I really going to let Xavier Rockwell make me doubt myself? Or dictate my decisions?

Two years ago, I let some rich kid’s entitlement steal my art scholarship. I swore I’d never let that happen again. And here I am, considering passing up a life-changing opportunity because—what? Some trust-fund brat might make snide comments about my clothes?

Xavier’s just a high school senior, same as me. Strip away the mansion and the fancy toys, and what’s left? A guy who throws too many parties, dates too many girls, and can’t say no to his little brother.

He’s not some all-powerful overlord. He’s just…some dude.

No more letting privileged jerks stand in my way.

I jump to my feet, turning towards my mother. "I'm doing it."

Mom pauses, her right hand holding one end of the tape. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

She gets up and jogs over to give me a high five. "You've got this, Maggs."

"Thanks." I hug her.

"I mean it." She pulls back. "You're going to be amazing. Finn Rockwell is a lucky boy."

My chest swells. I grab my phone and type the text to Denise.

Maggie

I'd love to accept the position. When can I start?

Chapter Six

Maggie

Igrip Brat Girl’s steering wheel as the wrought-iron gates glide open without so much as a groan. My vintage Subaru Brat feels hilariously out of place crawling up the pristine cobblestone driveway. The lane winds through frost-laced trees, their bare branches arching overhead like something out of a fairy tale.

Then the forest thins, revealing acres of manicured gardens with twisted hedges, barren shrubs, and life-size statues frozen in snow-dusted stillness.

My four suitcases rattle in the truck bed as I navigate the curves. Two for clothes, one for toiletries, journals, and bedroom essentials, and one crammed with as much of my miniature modeling supplies as I could fit.

Another turn, and suddenly, the Rockwell mansion emerges—massive, glinting under the sunlight, all pale limestone, towering windows, and arched wooden doors. I’ve been here once before, for that insane party, but back then, darkness and drunken chaos softened the impact. Now, in broad daylight, the place looms ahead in all its over-the-top glory.

Denise emailed me detailed instructions with an attached map (yes, an actual map), so I follow the directions to the right parking spot, next to a dark grey Mercedes G-Wagon. I cut the engine and sit there for a moment, drag in a shaky breath and slide my fingers up and down the textured steering wheel a few times. Pretty sure my palms are clammy. The enormity of what I'm about to do is settling in, taking root in the pit of my stomach.

I'm going to be living here.In this mansion. With the Rockwells.

I press the buzzer by the massive wooden door tucked into one of the turrets, fully expecting a white-gloved butler—or maybe that would be weird? Servants greeting other servants? I have no idea how these things work.

Thankfully, it’s Denise who opens the door, smiling warmly. I liked her the few times I met her this summer. She's professional but approachable.

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