Part 1Say Please Mr Montgomery

I got hired to be the lifeline on a reality TV show about wealthy heirs for one simple reason: I had a PhD in being hopelessly broke.

The premise of Trust Fund Survival was straightforward. I had thirty days to take three useless socialites and teach them how to keep themselves alive without a platinum card.

When our biggest liability, Declan Montgomery, heard that his living allowance for the duration of the show was three hundred dollars, he was the first to rebel.

""Three hundred dollars a day? What is this, a joke?"" he scoffed.

I looked him dead in the eye. ""For the month.""

Declan went utterly silent. He turned, snatched a producer's cell phone, and dialed. ""Dad? Are we bankrupt?""

That afternoon, with the cameras rolling and the entire crew watching, he laid down the law.

""You want me to take orders from her? Not a chance,"" he declared, his voice dripping with inherited arrogance. ""I would rather starve to death than beg her for a single thing.""

That night, at 11:00 PM, he knocked on my bedroom door. ""Coach. Let me borrow a bowl for this Cup Noodles.""

I leaned against the doorframe. ""Beg me.""

Declan turned on his heel and walked away.

Five minutes later, he came back. ""Please.""

From that moment on, he became my permanent shadow.

Laundry? He came looking for me.

Cooking? Looking for me.

Power outage? Looking for me.

This went on until a tearful heiress who had been harboring a lifelong crush on him stormed onto our closed set, pointed a trembling finger at him, and screamed, ""Don't let him fool you! He’s known how to cook since he was ten. He lived alone in Paris at twelve!""

I slowly turned my head toward the kitchen.

Declan was holding a scorched frying pan, looking at me with the wide, innocent eyes of a golden retriever. ""Coach, do you think a Brillo pad will fix this?""

I stared at him in silence.

What exactly was this guy playing at?

…

My name is Sierra Hayes. Because I have a wealth of experience in absolute poverty, the producers of Trust Fund Survival thought I’d make the perfect ""Life Coach.""

The director offered me fifty thousand dollars to teach three children of the one percent how to do their own laundry and cook a hot meal, all within a month. That money was exactly enough to clear my family’s lingering medical debts and put down the first month’s rent on a small storefront I’d been eyeing.

I didn't ask about the show's expected ratings. I didn't even ask who the celebrity guests were. I only confirmed one thing before signing.

""Room and board included?""

The director nodded. I signed on the dotted line.

On the first day of filming, a fleet of black SUVs rolled up to the rustic farmhouse we’d be living in upstate.

Sloane Kensington, a hotel heiress, stepped out of her car and reflexively stood completely still for thirty seconds. It wasn't until a PA gently blocked her assistant from intervening that Sloane sighed, accepting her grim reality, and dragged her own Rimowa suitcase up the gravel path.

""If they make these things so heavy, what is the point of the wheels?"" she complained to the sky. ""It’s not like it walks itself.""

On the porch, Harrison Reed, the heir to a Silicon Valley tech empire, was analyzing the rusted padlock on the front door, seriously advising the producers to upgrade to a biometric smart lock.

The last to step out was Declan.

The only son of the Montgomery Group. Infamous for his lethal temper and untouchable status.

When the director introduced me, Declan lowered his Tom Ford sunglasses. His gaze dragged over my face, lingering for a fraction of a second. But by the time I met his eyes, his expression had smoothed back into its default setting of careless boredom.

""This is the Life Coach?""

I nodded. ""I am.""

Declan’s eyes flicked down to my fifteen-dollar clearance-rack Target hoodie, then to the thrifted digital kitchen scale sitting by my sneakers.

""If I quit right now, what's the breach of contract penalty?"" he asked.

The director smiled politely. ""Five million dollars.""

Declan looked back at me. His tone was suddenly much more polite. ""Hello, Coach.""

Once inside, I placed three plain white envelopes on the battered oak dining table.

""This is your living allowance for the foreseeable future. Three hundred dollars each.""

Sloane counted the crisp twenties twice, looking genuinely confused. ""Did they forget to add a zero?""

Declan picked up his envelope, doing the mental math. ""Three hundred. How do we divide that per day?""

""Not per day,"" I corrected him, keeping my voice gentle. ""For the month.""

The farmhouse went dead silent.

That was when Declan borrowed the phone to ask his father if the Montgomery empire had crumbled.

A two-second pause echoed through the speaker before a chillingly calm voice replied, ""Stay on that show for the full month, and listen to your Coach.""

Declan frowned. ""And if I don't?""

""I freeze the Black Card.""

Click.

I lowered my head and made a quick note in my ledger.

Declan’s head snapped toward me, his eyes narrowing. ""What are you writing?""

""Personal phone call during production hours. Five-dollar deduction.""

""You're charging me for a phone call?""

""The phone belongs to the crew. The electricity to charge it doesn't appear out of thin air.""

Declan let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. He leaned back in his chair, looked dead into the camera lens, and made his vow.

""Take orders from her? Not a chance. I would rather starve to death than beg her for a single thing.""

I nodded, opened the ledger, and made another note.

""Disrupting the classroom environment. Ten-dollar deduction.""

His smirk froze.

I snapped the ledger shut and announced the first task of the day. ""You’ll rotate cooking duties. Tonight, we start with Declan.""

Declan glanced at the modest kitchen. He looked entirely unfazed. ""It's just cooking. How hard could it be?""

Half an hour later, Sloane’s panicked voice rang out from the kitchen.

""Declan, are you absolutely sure the onions go in after the eggs?""