The Wolfpack's New Receptionist

Budgets And Betrayals

The door to Apartment 2B 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 life hit me like a train.

I stepped inside and dropped my keys on a laminate counter peeling at the corners. The apartment was a shoebox. The living room was mostly empty, anchored by a couch that looked like it had been rescued from a curbside. The "kitchen" was a single wall of avocado-colored appliances, and the bedroom consisted of little more than a metal-frame bed holding a stained mattress. There was no bathtub, only a cramped stall, a gross toilet, and a small wash basin.

"Is this it?" I whispered to the 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 left me. Two thousand dollars in cash. Sitting on the lumpy couch, I pulled out my phone and opened a budgeting app.

"Three months' rent is paid. I have a car," I muttered, my fingers shaking.

"I just need to eat and buy clothes. I can do this."

By Wednesday, that illusion shattered. I had already spent four hundred dollars. Clueless about normal grocery shopping, I had wandered into a high-end market and bought imported cheeses, organic dragon fruit, and three bottles of French mineral water because the tap water tasted like pennies. Old habits die hard.

Then came the clothes. Unable to live in a torn DesChamps gown, I forced myself into a regular department store. I stood in an aisle of denim and cotton like a stranded alien until a clerk named Babs, reeking of vanilla and chewing gum loudly, asked if she could help.

"I need... things for a normal person," I said, walking out with five pairs of jeans, basic tees, and sneakers.

Total: six hundred dollars. I was down to a thousand before even paying for gas.

By the end of the week, surrounded by receipts, a sob caught in my throat. I looked at the organic dragon fruit on the counter; it was already shriveling, and I didn't even own a knife to cut it. Desperate for a lifeline, I called Isabelle.

The phone rang three times.

"Eloise? Where have you vanished? Did your dad give you a hard time?"

"Isabelle, it's worse. He cut me off. I'm living in West Miami. Can I stay with you just until he cools down?"

A long, awkward silence stretched across the line, followed by a light chuckle.

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

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

"Were we?" Isabelle’s voice dropped.

"Or was I just an employee you didn't pay? Who do you think posted your arrest? Millions of views in three hours. My engagement is up 400%. You were a great accessory, Eloise, but you're a much better cautionary tale. Don't call me again."

Click.

My blood turned to ice. Every friend I thought I had was a lie; I was just content for people who hated me. Fueled by sudden, blinding rage, I grabbed an expensive bottle of water, tried to wrench the cap off, and when it wouldn't budge, threw it against the drywall. It left a dent and bounced back.

"Fine!" I shouted at the empty room.

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

My hastily crafted resume was a pathetic joke. Under Experience, I wrote Socialite, Gala Organizer (Volunteer), Personal Stylist. To a real recruiter, it meant nothing. My first interview at a high-end real estate firm in Brickell ended abruptly when Mrs. Sterling, a sharp-bobbed hiring manager, scanned my paper for four seconds and looked up with a pitying smile.

"Miss Miller, speed dials aren't skills. You have no office experience, no references, and you didn't even finish your degree. We hire workers, not personalities."

Rejections followed in rapid succession. A marketing firm wanted a communications degree. A boutique manager recognized me and laughed in my face. Even a barista audition at a local coffee shop ended in disaster when the espresso machine's steam wand hissed at me, causing me to snap,

"It's a coffee machine! How hard can it be?" right before spraying 160-degree milk all over the trainer's shoes and getting thrown out.

By Friday, sitting in the driver’s seat of my Corolla with the AC off to save gas, my bank account sat at a miserable $214. I had driven south into the industrial Rust Belt, a grim grid of warehouses and salvage yards.

I buried my face in my hands, a wave of crushing regret washing over me.

"Please," I whispered to the empty car.

"Just give me something. Anything. I can't go back to him and tell him he was right."

Blinking through hot tears, I looked up and spotted a piece of neon-yellow poster board taped to a wire fence across the street, flapping wildly in the wind.

OFFICE RECEPTIONIST WANTED. MUST BE TOUGH. NO SISSY’S. INQUIRE WITHIN.

The handwritten sign hung outside a massive, battered metal building with wire-mesh windows and a gravel lot overflowing with motorcycle skeletons and half-gutted trucks. Above the door, a rusted iron sign swayed on its hinges: CANE’S GARAGE & RECOVERY.

It was the most unwelcoming place I had ever seen, pulsing with the high-pitched shriek of an industrial grinder from within. I checked my reflection in the rear-view mirror, pale, stressed, with zero glow left. I wasn't a Thorne anymore. I was just a broke girl with $214 and nowhere else to go.

"Well, Eloise," I muttered, grabbing my purse and stepping out into the punishing heat.

"You wanted the real world. Here it is."

As I pushed past the gate and walked toward the entrance, the city noises faded into a strange, heavy silence. A sharp, primal scent hung in the air, stirring an instinctive, uneasy feeling deep in my gut. I didn't know it yet, but I wasn't just stepping into a job interview. I was stepping right out of the human world entirely.