CHAPTER FOUR
1453 Words
CHAPTER FOUR
The Courier Office Catastrophe
The courier office looked nothing like Lila imagined.
She had pictured something sleek, organized, brightly lit—like the kind of place where important packages were carefully routed with professional precision.
Instead, she stepped into chaos.
Half the lights flickered like they were auditioning for a horror movie. A tower of mismatched cardboard boxes leaned dangerously near the entrance. A fan in the corner blew randomly, scattering packing slips like confetti at a party no one wanted to attend. And behind the counter sat a man who looked like he hadn’t slept since the invention of mail.
He was older, in a faded blue uniform, with a scowl so deep it probably had a zip code.
He didn’t look up when she approached.
“Hi!” Lila began cheerfully. Too cheerfully. “I’m really hoping you can help me. There was a mix-up with a delivery, and I need to—”
“No,” the man said, still staring at his computer.
Lila blinked. “I… I didn’t finish the sentence.”
“You were going to ask something impossible,” he grumbled, clicking loudly. “I could hear the tone.”
Lila pressed her lips together. “I promise it’s not impossible.”
“Everything is impossible,” he said. “Especially on a Wednesday.”
“It’s Saturday.”
He stopped typing and squinted at her with deep suspicion. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He sighed like she had personally ruined his entire week. “Fine. What do you want?”
Lila forced a polite smile. “I need to intercept a shipment of wedding invitations delivered by mistake. Two different weddings. All the envelopes got mixed up and—”
“Oh,” the man said, returning his attention to his computer. “No.”
Lila blinked. “No?”
“No. We don’t ‘intercept.’ Once mail is in transit, it’s gone. Like my optimism.”
She gripped the counter. “Please. This is really important. My whole business is on the line.”
“Not my business,” he muttered.
Lila inhaled slowly. She reminded herself that throwing a box at him—even a small one—was not an option.
“Okay,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “Then maybe you can at least tell me if the packages have been delivered yet?”
“No.”
“…You can’t tell me?”
“I won’t tell you,” he corrected. “Privacy policy.”
Lila closed her eyes briefly. She had walked into a building-sized brick wall.
“Sir,” she said, “two brides are calling me nonstop. A rival wedding planner just tried to poach both my clients. And I’m pretty sure my business—and my dignity—are leaking out of my shoes. I really, really need help.”
He shrugged. “Tragic.”
That was it.
Lila’s last thread of patience snapped.
She leaned forward. “Can you please check the tracking numbers?”
“No.”
“I have them right here.”
“No.”
“You literally just typed something on your computer!”
“That was Solitaire.”
Lila stared at him. “Are you serious?”
He finally looked up, eye twitching. “Do I look like someone who jokes?”
She didn’t answer. Because no, he absolutely did not look like someone capable of joy, light, or even mild amusement.
“Okay,” Lila said, exhaling. “What if I speak to your supervisor?”
He pointed vaguely toward the back of the warehouse. “She quit yesterday.”
“Manager?”
“Quit last week.”
“…Assistant manager?”
“Fired for optimism.”
Lila wasn’t sure if he was joking—but she doubted it.
She glanced around the chaotic room. No other employees. No ringing phones. Just towers of packages waiting for doom.
“All right,” she said slowly, “let’s try a different approach. What would it take for you to help me?”
He thought for a long moment.
“A nap,” he said eventually. “Six months. No customers. And a better chair.”
Lila groaned. “Something realistic.”
“No headaches.”
She rubbed her temples.
Her headache throbbed harder.
“Listen,” she pleaded. “If those invitations get delivered, my clients will fire me. And my competition will rub it in my face for the rest of my life. I just need a few minutes of access. One look at the system. One look at the packages. That’s it.”
He stared at her. Long. Slowly. He squinted like she was a complicated math problem he didn’t feel like solving.
Finally, he said, “What’s your name?”
“Lila Hart.”
He typed something—slowly, painfully—into the computer.
Her heart leapt hopefully.
“You’re—” click “—not in the system,” he announced flatly.
“I’m not a package!”
“Then why are you here?”
She threw her hands up. “Because the packages belong to my clients!”
“Your clients,” he repeated like she’d said “my alien overlords.”
“Yes!”
He tapped the keyboard again. “Names?”
“Isabelle Reed and Maya Rossi.”
He typed with the speed of a sloth on vacation.
After what felt like the gestation period of a whale, he said, “Packages were out for delivery this morning.”
Lila’s breath stopped. “Out? Like… already left?”
“Yes.”
“And where are they now?”
He cracked his knuckles. “Delivered.”
Lila stumbled back. “No. No, no, no—delivered? Already?”
“Yup.”
Her heart slammed painfully. “To the wrong people?”
“Probably.”
She felt faint.
He shrugged. “We do our best.”
“You do?” She gestured wildly around. “Does this look like ‘your best’?! Your fan is attacking government property!”
He didn’t look. “Wind circulation.”
“No, that is paper assault!”
He sighed. “Are we done?”
Lila pressed a hand to her forehead. “I need addresses. Who received what. Please.”
“No can do,” he said blandly. “Privacy.”
“But I’m the planner!”
“And I’m the employee who doesn’t care.”
She stared at him. “How do you still have a job?”
“Short-staffed,” he answered, then reached for a sandwich from under the counter.
She was losing her mind.
“Sir,” she whispered, trying not to cry, “I have two weddings in four weeks. I have brides calling me in panic. I have a rival planner waiting for me to fail. I need something.”
He chewed slowly. Too slowly.
“You’re dramatic,” he said finally.
“I am desperate!”
“Same thing.”
Lila gripped the counter. “What can you tell me without breaking policy?”
He paused. Then sighed.
“One of the packages was delivered early. Special priority. Signed for.”
Lila perked up. “By which household?”
He slowly tore a bite of sandwich. “Can’t tell you.”
She fought the urge to scream.
He swallowed. “But I can tell you…” He leaned in conspiratorially.
Lila leaned in too.
“…that sometimes,” he whispered, “our drivers get lazy and take pictures of the delivery locations.”
Images. Evidence. Clues.
Her heartbeat accelerated. “Can you show me?”
“No.”
Her shoulders sagged.
“But you might,” he added, “find some of them printed in the back room near the photo log if no one has shredded them yet.”
Lila brightened. “Back room?”
“Yes.”
“Can I go in there?”
“No.”
“…What if I accidentally walk toward it?”
“Won’t stop you.”
She stared. “Are you… helping me?”
He took another bite. “No.”
But he wasn’t stopping her either.
Lila adjusted her bag, steeling herself.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He waved her off. “Tell them I was helpful.”
“I won’t,” she said.
“Good,” he grunted.
With that, Lila slipped around the counter and headed for the back room, determination burning through her like adrenaline.
She wasn’t quitting. She wasn’t giving Seraphina Bloom the satisfaction.
If the invitations were already delivered—
Then she was going to track down every single one.
Even if it meant diving into the courier office’s chaotic underworld.
- Writer
