They called it a "mentorship lunch," but when I opened the email and saw the names listed, my fingers froze mid-scroll. It didn't feel real. A roundtable with the sponsors of the Student Creativity Conference? Me?
I blinked, thinking maybe I'd misread something. Maybe it was meant for someone else. But there it was—my name, bold and undeniable.
"What's with the face?" Jordan's voice snapped me back. He dropped into the chair across from me in the student lounge, his usual grin softening when he saw how quiet I was.
I slid the phone across the table toward him. "Look."
He picked it up, scanned the message, and let out a low whistle. "Yo. This is big."
I gave a shaky laugh. "That's what scares me."
He reached for my hand, gave it a squeeze. "You didn't pass out. You lit that stage up. Just be the girl who did that."
It helped. A little. But I still called my dad—Big G.
"Baby girl," Dad said the moment he picked up, his voice warm like a blanket straight out the dryer.
"I got invited to lunch," I blurted. "With the sponsors. From the conference."
There was a pause on the line. Then a soft chuckle. "Woooow. Didn't I tell you that voice would take you places?"
I smiled. "It's just lunch."
"Nah. It's never just lunch," he said. "Go. Sit. Pay attention. Be yourself. That's all anyone ever really wants."
He made it sound simple. Like I was going to meet a friend, not a table full of powerful people who probably used words like capital and strategy before breakfast.
But I showed up. Because when doors crack open, you don't wait around hoping someone else will walk through first.
I arrived at the rooftop dining hall fifteen minutes early, heart rattling in my chest like sneakers in a dryer. I'd worn my softest powder-blue blouse, the one dad once said made me look "like I belonged on a magazine cover", and a pair of clean, pressed jeans.
I stood still for a moment, just breathing it all in. It felt... big.
Then she approached.
Short platinum hair. Caramel-toned skin.
"Elaina Wright," she said, offering a confident handshake. "Co-chair at The Narratives Fund. You must be Seraphina Wells."
I nodded, hoping I wasn't gripping her hand too hard.
"We were blown away by your performance. You didn't just speak—you cut through the noise. You stayed with us. That's rare."
My throat tightened. "Thank you. That... that really means a lot."
"Come," she said, placing a hand lightly on my shoulder. "Let's meet the others."
There were five people already seated around a sleek, glass-top table. Three men, two women. Relaxed but powerful, like they owned every room they entered.
And then, my heart stuttered.
One of them turned slightly, and it was him.
Youngest at the table, but somehow the most grounded. The way he sat: shoulders relaxed, hands clasped, eyes steady, made him seem like he owned more than just his seat.
He couldn't have been more than late twenties, maybe early thirties. No tie. Just a navy blazer that looked like it cost rent, a clean silver watch, and a kind of calm that didn't need to prove anything.
He caught my eye and gave me a small nod, lips lifting at the corners. I nodded back, quick, pretending I didn't feel that small flutter in my chest. Stupid nerves. Or something else.
"Everyone, this is Seraphina Wells," Elaina said, her hand brushing lightly against my shoulder. "The young woman who stole last night's spotlight."
The lunch started off easy, warm plates, clinks of cutlery and small talk. The kind of polite laughter that floats just above a table like steam. Then, like flipping a switch, they started asking questions.
"Your piece," said one of the older men—Mr. Dawson, I think—"about using voice to reshape broken narratives. It was… something."
I felt the weight of their attention settle on me.
"I just… I write what I feel…," I said, fingers tightening around the base of my glass. "
Elaina gave me a soft nod. "Relax. This isn't an interview. We're here because something in you struck a chord"
Someone else chimed in. A woman across from me, thin gold bangles clinking on her wrist. "What inspired your piece?"
I hesitated. Swallowed.
"I think…" I said slowly, tracing the rim of my glass with my finger. "I just got tired. Tired of hearing the same stories about where I'm from. Like… we're always painted one way. And I wanted to say something different. For me. For everyone who's been told they come from nothing."
A few of them nodded, quiet and thoughtful.
That's when Malik leaned in slightly. Not saying anything yet. Just listening. But it was the kind of listening you feel.
"You spoke with clarity and depth, Sera," Malik said, his voice low but firm. "It felt intentional."
I nodded once, not sure what to do with the sudden attention.
He leaned forward a little, eyes steady on mine. "And what do you want to do with that voice? When you close your eyes five years from now, where are you standing?"
That question settled deep. I closed my eyes for a second, not for drama, just to see clearer.
I saw a stage. A full room. But also, something gentler: girls curled up with books I'd written; families watching documentaries I helped create.
My hands were warm now. I didn't even realize I'd stopped holding my water.
"I want to shift something," I said. "To change how people see Harlem. People like me. Maybe even build a media space that centers truth over trend."
There was a beat of silence. Not awkward. Just full.
Elaina sat up straighter, her eyes sharper now. "What's stopping you?"
"Money," I said honestly. "Direction, too. It's hard trying to do everything: school, content, family stuff. Some days I believe I can do it. Other days… I'm just tired."
Her smile came slow. Confident. Like she'd been waiting for that exact answer.
"Do you know how rare it is to have clarity at your age?" she said, lifting her water glass. "That kind of vision? It deserves backing."
She looked across the room and gave a subtle nod.
A woman walked in, holding a slim envelope.
I blinked. "Wait! What's happening?"
Elaina didn't flinch. "On behalf of the sponsors and the Student Creativity Initiative board, we're awarding you a grant. It's not huge, but it's enough to give you space. Room to think. To grow. To build."
She pushed the envelope toward me.
"$5000. Use it for workshops, equipment, research or whatever gets you closer to your vision."
I sat there, frozen. "Is this… is this real?"
My fingers trembled as I opened the envelope. The paper inside didn't lie.
I stared at the numbers like they might vanish if I blinked too hard.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe. My throat tightened, chest heavy. Gratitude caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
This wasn't just money.
A door cracked open. A yes, in a world that often told me no.
"Yes," Malik said quietly, "and it's only the beginning. You're not invisible, Sera. Not anymore. You've got something rare. Don't let the world shrink it."
My breath hitched. My eyes stung, fast. I nodded, lips quivering.
"Thank you," I whispered.
The table clapped; gentle, genuine. A waiter appeared and quietly refilled my water.
I didn't know if I should cry or laugh. Maybe both.
Then Elaina's voice broke in.
"There's one more thing."
I looked up, blinking through the blur.
"We're producing a mini docu-series. It's focused on Harlem's rising voices. We think your story belongs in it. We want to feature you."
My heart skipped. Or maybe it thudded louder—I couldn't tell which. I nodded before I even thought it through.
The rest of lunch passed in a golden kind of blur. Laughter. Ideas. Soft questions. I didn't feel like a guest. I felt like I belonged.
They weren't just accomplished. They were grounded. Present. And somehow… somehow I was here, too.
As everyone started to gather their things and leave, Malik didn't move. He stayed seated. Eyes on mine.
And something in his look told me—this wasn't over.