Spoiling The Unfiltered Goddess With My Wealth

"Your resume is... thin, Miss Vasquez."

Debra Finch sat behind her massive glass desk, her manicured fingers flipping the single sheet of paper. She let out a loud, heavy sigh that echoed in the sterile Manhattan office.

Chelsi Vasquez sat on the edge of the leather guest chair. She twisted the hem of her cheap, off-the-rack blazer so hard her knuckles turned white. Her stomach dropped, twisting into a tight, painful knot.

"You have no Ivy League background," Debra said, dropping the paper onto the polished surface. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet room. "No connections. Nothing that fits the image of a top-tier public relations firm."

Chelsi leaned forward. Her throat felt incredibly dry.

"I have two years of operational experience from my college jobs," Chelsi said, her voice shaking slightly. "I know how to run campaigns from the ground up. I can learn whatever you need me to."

"Stop." Debra held up a hand. "Street-level sales experience is worthless here. We deal with high-net-worth individuals, not corner store promotions."

Debra's cold eyes moved down. They stopped and lingered on Chelsi's shoes. The black leather was scuffed and peeling at the toes. A slow, mocking smirk pulled at the corners of Debra's mouth.

Chelsi felt a hot flush of humiliation burn her cheeks. She immediately pulled her feet back, hiding them under the chair. Her chest tightened so much it hurt to breathe.

Debra stood up, smoothing her designer skirt.

"You don't fit our demographic," Debra said, her tone final. "Thank you for your time. The exit is to your left."

Chelsi swallowed the thick lump in her throat. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She forced her stiff legs to stand.

"Thank you," Chelsi whispered.

She turned and pushed open the heavy glass door. In the hallway, a dozen other applicants in expensive, tailored suits stared at her. Some looked pitying. Others openly sneered. Chelsi kept her head down, her heart pounding against her ribs in a frantic, painful rhythm.

The moment she pushed through the revolving doors of the building, the New York sky broke open. A massive downpour of freezing rain hit her instantly. Within seconds, her thin blazer was soaked through, clinging to her shivering skin.

She couldn't afford a twenty-dollar cab ride. She pulled her bag to her chest and ran. She sprinted through three blocks of heavy rain, her lungs burning, until she finally squeezed into a damp, mold-smelling subway car.

She collapsed onto the hard plastic seat. Her hands were shaking violently from the cold. She pulled out her cracked phone and opened the Chase Bank app.

The screen loaded. The balance read $14.50.

It felt like a physical punch to the gut. She stared at the pitiful double digits, her thumb hovering over the cracked glass as a profound sense of helplessness washed over her. The numbers blurred as her eyes filled with tears. Next week's rent was completely impossible. The freezing subway air bit into her soaked clothes,