Chapter 1

Natasha

The alarm cuts through my dream like a knife, dragging me back to consciousness with all the subtlety of a jackhammer. I slam my hand down on the snooze button, but it's pointless. The damage is done. Five hours of sleep isn't enough, but it's all I'm getting these days. Between emergency calls and paperwork, sleep has become a luxury I can't afford.

"Up and at 'em," I mutter to myself, forcing my body upright, my joints protesting every inch of the way.

My bedroom isn't much, just enough space for a queen bed with sheets that have seen better days, a secondhand dresser I refinished myself, and the mountain of laundry I haven't had time to fold since... was it Tuesday? Maybe Monday? Tools are scattered across my dresser instead of makeup—pipe wrenches, teflon tape, and a voltage tester I was using to fix my bedside lamp. A heavy wrench sits where fancy perfume should be. That's my life in a nutshell—practical, functional, no frills.

I drag myself to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, the shock of it finally kickstarting my system. I stare at my reflection in the speckled mirror that could use a good cleaning. The bags under my eyes tell their own story—dark half-moons against my brown skin. Twenty-six and already looking worn down like Dad after a double shift. The curls escaping from my nighttime bonnet frame my exhausted face. But there's no time for self-pity when bills need paying and Dad's medication isn't getting any cheaper. The business won't run itself.

I pull off my bonnet and shove my thick curls into a tight bun. Then, I slip into my work clothes—sturdy pants with reinforced knees and a company polo with "Mason Plumbing" embroidered across the chest. Not glamorous, but it helps Dad pay the bills. Most of them anyway.

In the kitchen, I shove bread in the toaster and lean against the counter. Mom's already left for her hospital shift. Through the window, I can see Dad in his home office, hunched over paperwork.

The toast pops. I slather butter on it and take a bite, heading toward Dad's office.

"Morning," I say, mouth half-full.

Dad glances up, reading glasses perched on his nose. "Natasha. You look tired."

"I'm fine." Standard response, whether it's true or not.

He gestures at the stack of work orders on his desk. "Got a full day. I'm thinking you take the Hendersons' backed-up sink, and I'll handle the—"

I reach over and pluck a random order from the pile, scanning it quickly. My eyebrows shoot up.

"Interesting. An estate? On Hill Avenue?" I whistle low. "Busted pipe in the master bathroom."

Dad's head snaps up. "Let me see that." He snatches the paper from my hand. "No way. I'll take this one."

"Why? Because it's a mansion? Because rich people might not want a woman fixing their pipes?"

"That's not—"

"Dad, we've been through this. I can handle any job that comes through that door." I grab the work order back. "I've been doing this since I was sixteen."

"Against my better judgment," he mutters.

"You trained me yourself! Said I had the best hands in the business."

Dad sighs, that deep sound that means he's remembering all the reasons he wanted something different for me. College. A desk job. Anything but crawling under sinks and fixing other people's shit.

"Your sister's tuition is due next month," he says quietly.

"I know." And I do know. It's why I work overtime. Why I take the jobs no one else wants. Why I'm here instead of pursuing my own dreams.

"Fine." He throws his hands up. "Take the mansion job. But be professional. These people could be good for business."

I stuff the last bite of toast in my mouth and grab my tool belt from the hook by the door. "When am I not professional?"

"Natasha—"

"No job scares me, Dad. Not even rich people with fancy toilets." I sling the belt over my shoulder. "I'll call if I need backup, but I won't."

I'm halfway out the door when Dad's voice stops me.

"Natasha, wait."

I turn, one hand on the doorframe. His face has that look—the one where he's about to have "the talk" again. I've seen it too many times not to recognize it.

"When are you going to stop doing this?" He gestures vaguely at my tool belt, my work clothes, everything that makes me who I am professionally. "This was never meant to be permanent for you."

I step back into the room, setting my tools down with a clank that feels louder than it should. "Dad, we've been over this."

"You're too smart to be crawling around under sinks for the rest of your life."

"What I do keeps the lights on." I tap the work order in my hand. "This job alone will cover half of Lisa's textbooks for next semester."

He runs a hand over his thinning hair. "Your sister wouldn't want you sacrificing your future for hers."

"It's not a sacrifice if I'm good at it." I cross my arms. "And I am good at it."

"That's not the point. You could be doing anything—"

"We can't afford 'anything' right now." The words come out sharper than I intend. I soften my tone. "Look, I know you want more for me. But we can't afford for me to chase dreams while bills pile up. What kind of daughter would I be if I let you and Mom struggle just so I could be more comfortable?"

Dad's shoulders slump. "You're not responsible for keeping this family afloat."

"Yes, I am. We all are. That's what family means." I pick up my tool belt again, the familiar weight comforting in my hands. "I'm not going to let us go without food or let Lisa drop out just because society thinks I should be doing something 'better' than plumbing."

"You could at least look at community college courses. Something in the evenings—"

"When? Between twelve-hour shifts and emergency calls?" I shake my head. "I'm not saying never, Dad. I'm saying not now."

The silence between us stretches, filled with all the things we both want but can't have. Not with Mom's medical bills from last year still looming and Lisa's education costs mounting.

Finally, Dad nods, resignation and pride battling in his expression. "You're stubborn as hell, you know that?"

"Wonder where I got that from." I manage a small smile.

He comes around the desk and pulls me into a hug. It smells like aftershave and coffee—the scent of my childhood. "I just want you to have options."

"I know." I pull back. "And I appreciate that you care so much. Not everyone has a dad who wants the best for them."

"The very best," he agrees, squeezing my shoulder. "Even if we disagree on what that is."

"I'm not giving up on my future," I say. "I'm just making sure we all have one first."

He hands me the keys to the work van, the metal warm from being in his pocket. "Go show those rich folks what Mason Plumbing is made of. Let them see what real craftsmanship looks like."

I grin, feeling the weight of our conversation lift slightly from my shoulders. "I'll make you proud. Promise to leave their fancy bathroom better than I found it."

"You already make me proud, kiddo. Every damn day." His voice catches just slightly—the way it does when he's feeling more than he wants to show. "Even when you're being as stubborn as your old man."

The words follow me out to the van, warming me more than the morning sun that's just starting to peek over the horizon, painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. Dad might not understand all my choices, but he respects them. In a world that often doesn't see the value in what I do—in who I am—that means everything.

I slide into the driver's seat, the familiar smell of tools and the faint lingering scent of Dad's pine air freshener greeting me. The van's been through hell and back with us, but it's reliable. Just like the family business.

I start the engine, mentally preparing for the mansion job ahead. Some celebrity or trust fund baby with a leaky gold-plated faucet, probably. Rich people's problems are still just plumbing problems, no matter how fancy the fixtures or how many bathrooms they have. And those, at least, I know how to fix. Water doesn't care if you're worth millions or scraping by—it follows the same laws of physics either way.

As I pull out of the lot, I adjust my Mason Plumbing cap and take a deep breath. Time to prove, once again, that a woman with a wrench can solve problems that money alone can't fix.