Excerpt from My Flawless Life by Yvonne Woon, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Our school was small enough that if my mystery sender was in this room, I had to know him. Or her. But how well did I know this person? Did we pass each other occasionally on campus, or had we once been friends?

>You can call me Three.

Why Three? As if reading my mind, a new message appeared.

>You'll find out why when you get to the end.

I stared at the phone, bewildered. Before I could respond, another message came in.

>I'll pay you $5,000.

I considered myself someone who offered a high-end service to high-end clients, and charged accordingly, but even I was surprised at a sum so large for a single job.

Enough time had elapsed that I had started to think Three wasn't going to respond. Then a final message appeared on my screen.

>When you finish the job, you'll know.

I stared at the message, considering how to respond, when I saw a man extricate himself from conversation and find a drink. I'd been watching him all night and didn't know if I'd have another opportunity. I stuffed my phone into my bag. Before approaching him, I peeled off my name tag and put on a new one.

"Hi," I said, smiling.

He looked me up and down, then smiled, clearly pleased. "Hi."

He was on the younger side, generically good-looking, if not a bit square. If I had to guess, I'd say he worked in finance. His alumni sticker read Brandon, University of Pennsylvania.

"Do I know you?" he said, swirling his drink.

"I don't think so," I said. It was a lie. Though we'd never met before, I was certain he knew who I was; he just couldn't place me. It wasn't the first time it had happened.

He glanced at my name tag, which read Heather, Senior. It wasn't my real name. "Are you sure? You look familiar."

"I get that a lot. I guess I have a common face."

He smiled, amused. "I wouldn't say that." It appeared that my answer had quelled his curiosity. "So, Heather, what do you see yourself doing after you graduate from St. Francis?"

He was probably ten years older than I was, though that didn't stop him from flirting with me. I studied him with distaste. I could have told him the truth: that I had no interest in bantering with a mildly lascivious man and was only talking to him because I had been hired to, but instead, I told him what he wanted to hear.

"I'd like to major in economics and go into finance," I said. "The plan is to eventually get an MBA. I've heard UPenn has a great program."

A surprised grin spread across his face. I'd gotten it right. "It does."

We chatted a little bit more. I asked him questions about his job and feigned interest when he talked about wealth management and diversification. When I couldn't take it anymore, I scrawled my fake name on a napkin and asked him for his card, which he eagerly gave me after writing his personal email address on the back.

A caterer walked by with a tray of hors d'oeuvres, and while Brandon helped himself to a mini quiche, I took the opportunity to excuse myself, weaving through the crowd until I was out of his line of vision. There, I crumpled the fake name tag and put it in the trash. Then I texted my

client, Heather.

>Sure, she wrote back.

I slipped my phone into my bag and made my way to the door.

There were fancy names for my job—disaster consultant,

crisis manager—but I preferred fixer, which was what most of my classmates would call me if you could find anyone who would admit to hiring me.

Kids at St. Francis didn't need help getting internships or building their résumés; they had their parents for that. What I fixed were the more delicate issues that they couldn't ask their parents to repair. I restored reputations, I suffocated rumors. I kept secrets from spilling, and if they'd already spilled, I cleaned them up. In short, I solved problems, and I was great at it.

Excerpted from My Flawless Life by Yvonne Woon. Copyright © 2023 by Yvonne Woon. Excerpted by permission of Katherine Tegan Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.