The Wolfpack's New Receptionist

Budgets and Betrayals

The door to Apartment 2B didn’t open with a thumbprint or a glide. It squeaked on rusted hinges, sticking against a linoleum floor that had seen better days. As Edward’s town car faded into the distance, leaving me standing in a hallway that smelled of industrial cleanser, the reality of the Miller's life hit me like a train.

I stepped inside and dropped my keys on a laminate counter that was peeling at the corners. The apartment was a shoebox. The living room was mostly empty with a couch that looked like it had been rescued from a sidewalk. The "kitchen" was a single wall of avocado-colored appliances, and the bedroom, if you could call it that, was only a bed with a metal frame and a disgusting mattress that had brown patches all over it. There was no bathtub, only a small shower, a gross toilet, and a small wash basin.

"Is this it?" I whispered to the empty, peeling walls.

"No walk-in closet? No King-sized bed?"

I walked to the window and pushed aside a set of dusty plastic blinds. Instead of the sparkling blue of Biscayne Bay, I looked out onto a cracked alleyway where a stray cat was fighting a fast-food wrapper.

I opened the white envelope my father had given me. It contained two thousand dollars in cash. I sat on the lumpy couch and pulled out my phone, opening a budgeting app I’d downloaded in a panic.

"Okay," I muttered, my fingers shaking as I typed.

"Three months' rent is paid. I have a car. I just need to eat and... buy clothes. This is fine. I can do this."

Three Days Later...

The "doing this" part was a disaster. By Wednesday, I had spent four hundred dollars. I didn't know how to shop at a grocery store. I had walked into a high-end market and bought imported cheeses, organic dragon fruit, and three bottles of French mineral water because the tap water in my apartment tasted like pennies. Old habits die hard.

Then came the "essentials." I couldn't wear a torn, blood-stained Laurent DesChamps gown to live in West Miami. I had to go to a mall. Not the designer boutiques, but a regular department store. I stood in the middle of an aisle full of denim and cotton, feeling like a traveler in a foreign land.

"Can I help you find something, honey?" a salesclerk asked. She was wearing a name tag that said 'Babs' and smelled like vanilla perfume, and was loudly chewing her gum.

"I need... clothes," I said, gesturing at my body.

"Things for... a normal person."

I walked out with five pairs of jeans, some basic T-shirts, and a pair of sneakers. The total was six hundred dollars. I was down to a thousand, and I hadn't even paid for gas yet.

By the end of the first week, the panic started to set in. I sat on my floor surrounded by receipts.

"One week, and I've spent more than half of the money," a sob caught in my throat.

I looked at the organic dragon fruit sitting on my counter. It was starting to shrivel. I didn't even have a knife to cut it with. I hadn't thought about buying kitchen utensils.

I picked up my phone to call Isabelle. I needed a friendly voice, someone to tell me this was all a prank. The phone rang three times before she picked up.

"Eloise? Oh my god, girl, are you okay? Did your dad give you a hard time about the car?"

"Isabelle, it's worse than that. He cut me off. I'm living in West Miami. I'm... I'm a 'Miller' now. Can I stay with you? Just until he cools down?"

There was a long, awkward silence at the other end. Then, I heard a light chuckle.

"Stay here? Eloise, be serious. My manager says I have to distance myself from the 'Thorne Scandal' for a bit. My brand is all about luxury travel and 'clean girl' aesthetics. Having a friend who fights cops and gets dragged to jail? It’s bad for my metrics."

"Metrics? Isabelle, I bought you a five-thousand-dollar Dior bag for your birthday! We've been friends since school!"

"Were we?" Isabelle’s voice dropped.

"Or was I just an employee you didn't pay? You were always so busy being at the center of the room that you never noticed who was holding the camera. Who do you think filmed you jumping off Jaxon's roof, Eloise? Who do you think posted your arrest?"

My heart stopped.

"You... you did that?"

"It’s the best performing reel I’ve ever posted," she said, and I could practically hear her smiling.

"Millions of views in three hours. My engagement is up 400%. You were always a great accessory, Eloise, but you're a much better 'cautionary tale.' Don't call me again."

Click.

I stared at the screen, my blood turning to ice. The betrayal felt worse than the eviction. Every 'friend' I had, every party I’d hosted, was all a lie. I was a content farm for people who hated me.

I stood up, fueled by sudden rage. I walked over to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of that expensive bottled water. I tried to twist the cap, but it was sealed tight. I twisted harder, my skin burning against the plastic, until finally, I screamed and threw the bottle against the wall. It didn't break. It just bounced off the cheap drywall, leaving a dent.

"Fine!" I shouted at the empty room.

"I'll get a job. I'll show him. I'll show her. I'll show all of them!"

I spent the next four hours on my laptop, searching for "Executive Assistant" and "Luxury Brand Manager" roles. I was a Thorne. Surely, someone would want my taste, my connections, my eye for detail.

I didn't realize yet that without the name Thorne, I was just a girl with a smeared reputation, no skills, and a "friend" who had just sold her soul for a million likes.