Two minutes. It took just two minutes to shatter my already-struggling life into pieces like a cheap biscuit someone had stepped on.
I stood on the sweltering sidewalk, hugging a cardboard box containing a wilted cactus, a set of pens that had run out of ink, and my favorite mug, cracked around the handle. Mr. Henderson had just fired me. The reason? The design files for “Project Zenith” had disappeared from the server. And of course, that bald man would rather blame a junior designer who’d only been working there for six months than admit that his intern nephew had accidentally deleted the folder while looking for cat videos.
“Okay, Avery. Breathe,” I muttered. It was a bad habit of mine. I liked to narrate my own life whenever I panicked, as though there were an invisible audience that actually cared. “You just lost your dream job. But at least you still have Mark. Mark is stable. Mark is home.”
I walked home with my back unnaturally straight, trying to ignore the ache in my throat as it began to tighten. I imagined Mark hugging me, ordering me an extra-cheese pizza, and letting me eat cereal straight from the box while crying over a Korean drama. That was exactly the healing vibe I needed right now.
But when I reached the door of our apartment—or, more accurately, Mark’s apartment, where I was merely crashing—the door was slightly ajar.
A shrill feminine laugh drifted from inside. My heart suddenly started running a marathon without warming up. I pushed the door open slowly, hoping I’d find nothing more than Mark’s cousin or maybe an overly friendly insurance salesperson.
But I was spectacularly wrong.
Mark was there, sprawled across the sofa I’d been paying off with the remains of last month’s paycheck, laughing with a blonde woman wearing my T-shirt. The limited-edition shirt Mark wasn’t even allowed to touch.
“Mark?” My voice came out smaller than I’d expected. But it was enough to make them both jump like rats caught stealing cheese.
“Avery! You... why are you home so early?” Mark stood up, trying to hide the woman behind him, who—oh my God—was calmly adjusting her bra strap.
I looked back and forth between them. Heat spread from my chest to my face. I didn’t want to cry. Crying in front of a man who couldn’t even stay faithful while his girlfriend was at work would be a serious blow to my dignity.
“That shirt.” I pointed at it, my voice trembling with anger, not sadness. “That’s the vintage 1994 T-shirt. And you let your mistress wear it?”
“Avery, this isn’t what it looks like—”
“Cliché, Mark. So cliché I could puke,” I cut him off. I dropped my box of belongings onto the floor with a heavy thud. “I got fired today. I came home looking for support, and instead I found... this. What a mess. My life is a complete mess.”
“Listen, Avery. Maybe it’s time we were honest. Our relationship has started to feel flat,” Mark said, suddenly turning defensive. “And honestly, you’re always talking to yourself. It’s weird. It’s a total turnoff.”
I stared at him, stunned. He was cheating on me and blaming me because I liked talking to myself? My hands clenched so tightly that my nails dug into my palms. “Get out,” I hissed.
“This is my apartment, Avery. You’re the one who has to leave. Right now.”
My world suddenly seemed to stop turning. I looked at the wall clock. Five in the afternoon. I had no job, no savings because I’d spent it all paying my mother’s hospital bills last month, and now I had nowhere to live. Everything had happened on the very same day. A truly spectacular hat trick of bad luck.
“Give me until tomorrow,” I said, trying to hold on to the last sliver of my dignity.
“Twenty-four hours. After that, your things are going in the trash,” Mark replied coldly.
I picked up my box, turned around, and walked out without another word. I didn’t want him to see my tears fall. I walked aimlessly beneath streetlights that were beginning to flicker on, passing the city’s towering buildings as they seemed to laugh at my poverty. My stomach was growling, but the thought of food made me feel like throwing up. I sat at a deserted bus stop, set the box beside me, and finally let my head droop onto my knees.
“Congratulations, Avery Thorne. You’re officially homeless,” I whispered to the night wind.
My tear-blurred gaze accidentally landed on a lamppost near the bus stop. A flyer was pasted to it. Its elegant black paper and contrasting gold lettering stood out sharply against the rusty pole.
I stood, wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, and moved closer.
“IMMEDIATE TENANT NEEDED: VANE PENTHOUSE” Top floor, 360-degree city views. Fully furnished. First-class amenities. Rent: $200/month.
I blinked. Once. Twice. Two hundred dollars? In the heart of the city, that much wouldn’t even be enough to rent a closet in a dump, let alone a penthouse. This had to be a scam. Or maybe it was an ad from 1970 that someone had forgotten to take down.
But at the bottom of the flyer was a small note in very neat handwriting: “Only for those who don’t mind loud noises at night and a landlord with a short temper.”
I let out a hollow laugh. A short-tempered landlord? That sounded like a fun challenge compared to sleeping under a bridge. I pulled out my phone, its screen cracked, and hesitated with my thumb hovering over the number printed on the flyer.
“Okay, Avery. If this turns out to be a human organ-trafficking ring, at least they’ll be disappointed because your kidneys have consumed too much instant ramen,” I muttered.
I pressed the call button. I needed a miracle, or at least a roof over my head within the next twenty-four hours. And for some reason, this bizarre flyer felt like the only rope thrown down into the well I’d fallen into.