The Client From Hell
1413 Words
By the time Liora reached Marlowe Interiors, her feet already ached and the evening wind had worked its way beneath her jacket. The studio’s glass storefront glowed with warm light, but the moment she stepped inside, that warmth evaporated.
The air inside was tense. Controlled.
Like walking into a room right after someone slammed a door.
At the center of the showroom, surrounded by display boards and swatches, stood her least favorite human being: Celeste Harrow.
Celeste—wealthy, high-profile, catastrophically dramatic—was tapping one manicured nail against her phone screen with enough annoyance to chip the polish.
When she spotted Liora, her gaze flattened.
“You’re late.”
Liora exhaled through her nose. “I’m three minutes early.”
“Exactly,” Celeste said. “Which means you’re not prepared.”
It was too early in the evening for this level of delusion.
Before Liora could respond, her manager Tessa Byrne hurried over, cheeks flushed and clipboard clutched like a shield.
“Tessa,” Liora greeted with forced calm. “Everything okay?”
“No,” Celeste answered for her. “Everything is absolutely not okay. My husband and I are hosting the investors’ dinner in two weeks, and the dining room still looks like a crime scene. The wallpaper is peeling. The lighting is atrocious. And the chairs—God, the chairs—look like rejects from a yard sale.”
Liora braced herself. “What would you like us to focus on today?”
Celeste huffed, tossing her hair. “All of it.”
Tessa mouthed I’m sorry behind Celeste’s back.
Liora opened her portfolio and began laying out the three design proposals she’d prepared overnight, despite being given only six hours to conjure something “dignified enough for billionaire guests.”
“Proposal One uses warm neutrals and brass accents,” she explained, placing polished samples on the table. “It highlights the natural structure of the room without overwhelming it.”
Celeste glanced down and made a low sound of disgust, as if the samples were roadkill.
“No,” she declared, flipping a board over with one finger. “I hate beige.”
“It’s taupe,” Liora corrected.
“Taupe is beige with an attitude problem.”
Liora kept her smile fixed, jaw tight.
She moved to the next board. “Proposal Two uses deep jewel tones—emerald, navy, amethyst—with gold trim. It’s bold but elegant, perfect for—”
“Horrifying,” Celeste interrupted. “My dining room would look like a casino for pirates.”
Tessa made a small choking sound.
Liora inhaled deeply and presented the final board. “Proposal Three: modern monochrome. Black and white palette, matte finishes, sculptural lighting.”
Celeste leaned in.
For one dangerous moment, she actually looked impressed.
Then: “No. Too modern.”
Liora’s eye twitched.
Celeste crossed her arms dramatically. “None of these feel like me. You should know my aesthetic by now.”
“Your aesthetic changes every forty-eight hours,” Liora said before she could stop herself.
Tessa shot her a warning look. Celeste raised an eyebrow.
“Excuse me?”
Crap.
Liora straightened. “What I mean is—you have eclectic taste, and you deserve a design that evolves with your vision.”
Celeste’s expression softened slightly. “Well. Yes. Obviously.” Then her eyes narrowed again. “But that doesn’t excuse these… samples.” She flicked a piece of brass trim like it offended her. “Do you shop at thrift stores?”
“Only for my personality,” Liora muttered.
Tessa kicked her under the table.
Celeste turned away, bored already. “I need something impressive. Something dramatic. Something—what’s the word?—rich.”
“Expensive?” Liora guessed flatly.
“Yes!” Celeste clapped. “Exactly.”
Of course.
The woman didn’t want design.
She wanted a price tag she could brag about.
Liora gathered the proposals slowly, stalling long enough for her brain to conjure alternatives. She needed Celeste to approve one tonight—because if this job died, her paycheck died with it.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Let’s create a fourth concept. One custom-tailored to you.”
Celeste smirked, triumphant. “Good. I thought you might eventually take this seriously.”
Tessa whispered, “You’re doing amazing,” while patting Liora’s arm with the moral support of a damp tissue.
Liora dragged a fresh sketchpad onto the table.
“Tell me what you’re drawn to,” she prompted.
Celeste perched on a barstool like a queen preparing to judge a village. “I want… glamour. But tasteful glamour. And minimalism, but also abundance. Dark tones, but airy. Sleek, but warm. Something reminiscent of an English manor but modernized for contemporary—”
Liora stopped writing.
“Do you hear yourself?”
Celeste blinked. “What?”
“You just described four different continents of design.”
Tessa whispered urgently, “Liora—”
“No, I’m genuinely asking,” Liora said. “Do you want maximalist or minimalist? Because you can’t have both.”
Celeste’s mouth pinched. “You’re supposed to translate my vision, not critique it.”
“I can only translate something that makes sense.”
“Are you saying I don’t make sense?”
Tessa made the high-pitched noise of a kettle about to explode.
Liora closed her eyes. Regrouped.
There was too much riding on this job to let her temper cost her income.
She reopened her sketchpad. “Let’s start over. One detail at a time. Lighting first. What mood do you want?”
Celeste paused. Thought. Then: “I want to look flawless at every angle.”
Finally—an honest, solvable requirement.
Liora began sketching: overhead soft panels, wall sconces angled to reduce shadows, a chandelier with diffused glass to create a flattering halo effect.
Celeste leaned closer. “Yes… maybe. Continue.”
For the next hour, Liora worked through color palettes, textures, seating arrangements, focal points. Celeste contradicted herself every ten minutes, but slowly, painfully, a cohesive idea emerged.
By the end, Liora held up the sketch.
Black marble table. Gold-veined. Velvet chairs in deep forest green. Ambient lighting with a warm temperature. A large wall mirror framed in brushed brass. Minimal clutter but high-impact statement pieces.
Celeste stared at it.
Tessa held her breath.
Finally, Celeste said, “Hmm.”
“Hm… good?” Liora asked.
“Hm… tolerable.”
Liora almost kissed the floor in relief.
Celeste snapped a picture of the sketch with her phone. “Send the digital render by tomorrow morning. And no errors.”
“Tomorrow morning?” Liora echoed. “That’s… fourteen hours from now.”
Celeste smiled sweetly. “Perfect. Then you have plenty of time.”
And just like that, she strutted out, leaving the scent of expensive perfume and emotional devastation behind her.
When the door shut, Tessa collapsed into a chair. “I swear she feeds off suffering.”
“She’s like a glamorized dementor,” Liora agreed.
“You going to be okay finishing the render tonight?”
Liora rubbed her temples. “I don’t have a choice.”
“Want coffee? A hug? A therapist? An exorcist?”
“Yes,” Liora said. “All of the above.”
Tessa chuckled and squeezed her arm. “You’re tough. You’ll pull it off.”
Liora smiled faintly, but her chest felt tight again—remembering the eviction notice folded in her bag.
She gathered her things, copied the sketch, and checked the time. If she left now, she had maybe six hours before exhaustion swallowed her whole.
Outside, the night air seeped cold through her clothes. She hugged her portfolio to her chest and walked toward the bus stop.
Halfway down the block, her phone buzzed.
A notification.
Her bank account.
She opened it.
Account balance: $42.81.
Her breath hitched.
She closed the app quickly before the ache behind her ribs became an actual tear.
One more job tonight.
Then the render.
Then maybe two hours of sleep.
She stopped at the curb, gripping her bag tighter.
She didn’t know it yet—not here, in this cold street under flickering lights—that her entire life was already shifting toward a man she hadn’t met.
A man who would upend her world.
A man whose world she would shatter in return.
But for now?
She had work to do.
And survival to claw her way through.
- Writer
