Blind Devotion

Chapter 1

The eviction notice is pink.

I don't know why that matters, but I keep staring at it. Like the color makes a difference. Like if it were white or yellow, maybe I could pretend it's something else. A flyer. A coupon for a pizza place I'll never go to.

But it's pink. Taped to my door at eye level so I can't miss it. So everyone in the hallway can see it when they walk past.

Seventy-two hours.

I peel it off slowly. The tape leaves a residue. Three years in this apartment and that's what I'm thinking about—the sticky mark on the door that won't be my problem in seventy-two hours because I won't live here anymore.

Inside, everything looks the same. Except it doesn't. My laptop on the coffee table. The mug I didn't wash this morning. The stack of rejection letters I keep meaning to throw away but can't seem to touch. All of it looks temporary now. Like stage props.

I should call someone.

I don't have anyone to call.

My phone buzzes. I know what it is before I look. Another job search alert. Another algorithm telling me about opportunities I'm not qualified for anymore. Or—worse—ones I'm overqualified for that still won't hire me.

I open it anyway.

The first listing is from Castellane & Associates.

Of course it is.

Dorian's firm. The company he built with my strategies. My market analyses. My three years of sixty-hour weeks and skipped meals and that one time I worked through the flu because he said the Hendricks presentation couldn't wait.

The job title is Senior Strategic Consultant. My old position. The one they fired me from before offering it to—

I close the app.

The pink notice is still in my hand. I've crumpled it without meaning to. The paper cuts into my palm when I smooth it out again, trying to make it flat. Trying to make it not real.

Seventy-two hours.

I have $143 in my checking account. My credit cards are maxed. I sold everything worth selling eight months ago except my laptop because I can't job hunt without it, and even that's held together with electrical tape and prayers.

The rejection letters on the table seem to multiply when I'm not looking at them.

We've decided to move forward with other candidates.

Your qualifications are impressive, but we're concerned about the gap in your employment.

We require references from your most recent position.

That last one makes me laugh. A horrible sound in the quiet apartment.

References. Sure. Let me just call Dorian and ask him to confirm that I wasn't actually embezzling from his clients. That I didn't steal proprietary information to sell to competitors. That the entire case built against me was fabricated by him and my stepsister because—

Because why?

I still don't know. Three years later and I still can't figure out what I did that made them hate me enough to destroy everything.

My phone buzzes again.

Not a job alert this time. A notification from some social media app I forgot I had. The kind that shows you things you don't want to see under the guise of keeping you connected.

Isla Cross is engaged!

There's a photo. Her hand—my stepsister's hand with its bitten nails and the birthmark on her wrist—wearing a ring I recognize. Emerald cut. Platinum band. I helped Dorian pick it out two weeks before everything fell apart. Before I knew it wasn't for me.

She's smiling at the camera. He's behind her, arms around her waist, face pressed to her neck. They're on a yacht. Because of course they are. The sunset behind them is the kind you see in travel magazines.

The caption says: He put a ring on it! 💍 Couldn't be happier to start this next chapter with my best friend and soulmate. Dreams do come true!

Four thousand likes already.

I met Isla when I was seven and she was five. My father married her mother that summer. She cried at the wedding because her flower girl dress was itchy, and I gave her my sweater even though I was cold. She wore it for the rest of the reception.

I gave her my sweater.

My phone slips. Hits the floor. The screen doesn't crack but I wish it would. I wish something would break that isn't me.

The apartment is too quiet.

I haven't spoken out loud to another person in—how long? Three days? Four? The grocery store clerk doesn't count. She didn't even look at me when she scanned my items. The cheapest bread. The dented cans from the discount shelf.

Seventy-two hours.

I should eat something. There's half a jar of peanut butter in the cabinet. Bread in the freezer from two weeks ago. It'll be fine if I toast it.

I don't move.

The news is playing through the wall. Someone's TV on too loud. Market report. Numbers scrolling past while a voice talks about quarterly projections and consumer confidence indices.

I used to know what all those numbers meant. Used to see the patterns three months before they materialized. There's a correlation between consumer credit applications and retail stock movement that most analysts miss because they're tracking the wrong data sets. Purchase frequency matters more than purchase volume when you're predicting Q4 performance.

Dorian called me his secret weapon. Back when he still said my name.

I'm staring at a water stain on the ceiling. Trying to remember when it appeared. Trying to remember if I reported it to the landlord or if that's one more thing I let slide because what's the point.

My feet are cold.

I should get socks.

I don't move.

The couch smells like the laundromat. That industrial detergent that never quite rinses out. I washed the slipcover last week because it was something to do. Something normal people do. Maintain their homes. Their lives.

Seventy-two hours.

My throat hurts.

I'm not crying. I haven't cried in months. Not since—

Actually, I don't remember the last time. It feels important to remember but I can't.

The laptop is still on. The screen has gone dark but I can see my reflection in it. Unwashed hair pulled back. The same shirt I wore yesterday and the day before. There's a coffee stain near the collar that didn't come out in the wash. Or maybe I just forgot to treat it first.

I look like someone who's given up. I look like exactly what I am.

My phone buzzes a third time.

I almost don't check it. What's the point? Another job I won't get. Another notification about Isla's perfect life. Another reminder that three years ago I had everything and now I have nothing and somehow I'm still here, still breathing, still taking up space I can't afford.

But I look anyway.

Unknown number. A text message.

Is this Vivienne Cross?

My finger hovers over the delete button.

I have a business proposition that might interest you. Are you available to meet tomorrow at 2pm?

Scam. Has to be. No one has business propositions for people like me. People with Google results full of accusations they can't disprove. People who lost the legal battle because they couldn't afford lawyers like Dorian could.

I should delete it.

I type: Who is this?

The response is immediate.

A friend of a friend. You were recommended. The address is 432 Park Avenue, 68th floor. Come alone.

Park Avenue. The kind of building where the doormen wear better suits than I've ever owned.

I almost laugh again. That same broken sound.

What kind of business?

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

The kind that pays well. 2pm tomorrow. I'll understand if you don't come.

The message ends there.

I read it four times. Look for the catch. The threat. The punchline.

There's nothing else.

432 Park Avenue. I could walk there from here. Save the subway fare. It would take forty minutes if I cut through the park. Less if I don't.

I have $143 in my account and seventy-two hours before I'm on the street and a text from a stranger offering—what? Money? A job? Another elaborate setup designed to destroy whatever's left of me?

There's nothing left to destroy.

That's the thing they don't tell you about rock bottom. It's not dramatic. It's not some moment of clarity where you decide to fight back or give up. It's just. This. Sitting on a secondhand couch in an apartment you're losing, holding a phone that might get shut off next week, staring at a message that's probably a scam but might—

Might be something.

Might be nothing.

Probably nothing.

My hands are shaking when I type back.

I'll be there.

The pink eviction notice is still on the floor where I dropped it. I pick it up. Fold it carefully this time. Put it in the drawer with all the other papers I can't deal with. Bills I can't pay. Court documents from the case I lost. The hospital letter wedged in the back where I don't have to see the date.

April. Sixteen months ago.

It was raining. I remember that. The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and someone's fast food lunch. The nurse had tired eyes. She handed me the paperwork and said something about options and I nodded like I was listening but I wasn't. I was thinking about the bus schedule. How I'd have to wait two hours for the next one because I couldn't afford—

I push the drawer harder. It doesn't want to close. Too much paper. Too much proof.

It closes.

Tomorrow. 2pm. Park Avenue.

I should shower. Find something to wear that doesn't look like I've been drowning for three years. The black pants with the broken zipper that I have to use safety pin. The blouse that's almost professional if I keep my blazer on. The blazer with the loose button that I keep meaning to sew back properly.

I'll fix the button tonight. I'll shower in the morning. I'll show up looking like someone who deserves a business proposition, even though we both know it's probably a waste of time.

Probably a scam.

Probably another way for the universe to remind me that people like me don't get second chances.

Instead I sit back down on the couch. Pull my knees up. Rest my forehead on them.

The apartment is still too quiet.

Outside, someone's car alarm goes off. Stops. Starts again. A dog barks. Normal sounds. Life continuing like it does. Like it will tomorrow whether I'm here or not.

I close my eyes.

The market report is still playing through the wall. Someone talking about third-quarter earnings. Retail sector. Consumer goods. I could tell them what those numbers mean. What they'll mean in six months. I used to be good at that.

Used to be good at a lot of things.

Tomorrow. Maybe.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe something.

I don't know which would be worse.