Le Corbeau: Falling for the lead

Tessa jolted awake like she'd just been tased, spitting out chunks of her auburn hair as the exhaustion faded from her eyes. The first thing she saw was the alarm clock on her nightstand, blank, dead, and mocking her with its lifeless face. "s**t," she muttered, fumbling for her phone under the pillow. How could she have forgotten to change the alarm clock batteries? Finally, she touched it, pushing the side button in fervent prayer. The screen glowed in her face, causing her to scream internally. 6:57 a.m. She was twenty-seven minutes late for work, and her battery was clinging to life at a sad 2%. "No, no, no," she whispered, scrambling upright. Her hair looked like it had been in a bar fight, her pajama top had a mysterious ketchup stain, and her mouth tasted like guilt and panic. Yet she kicked off the sheets with the grace of a dying giraffe and staggered to her feet. As she hurried through her apartment, her brain did the math on time-travel logistics: her client, an A-list TV personality, needed his coffee and meds by 7 am sharp. No exceptions. Now, even if she had time-bending abilities, she would still have to take a shower and get out of her PJs; things she couldn't accomplish in the 3 minutes she had left. 2 minutes 49 seconds, actually. "OMG!" Bolting to the kitchen, her hands shook as she tried to multitask. There was no time for standing in line at Starbucks; she had to brew his coffee at home. So she poured a cup of his favorite brew in one swift motion, only to end up misjudging the angle and watch in horror as hot coffee splashed directly onto her favorite white button-down. The only one she had that said, "I'm casual, yet capable." "Perfect!" she shouted at no one, grabbing a towel and blotting at the stain like it owed her money. With a groan of defeat, she yanked open her laundry basket, digging around like a raccoon until she found a backup shirt; less capable, but it would have to do. Then she threw it on inside-out, corrected it, and shoved her hair back into a ponytail that looked like it had emotional damage. Skipping a proper brush, she chugged mouthwash like tequila, grabbed her keys, and ran out the door with her bra half-on and a fresh coffee stain shaped vaguely like the map of France on her pants. As Tessa zigzagged through the light morning traffic of L.A. like a woman in a chase scene, her mind replayed her client's mandatory morning rules: Rule #1: Coffee by 7:00 a.m. She had failed that one already. Rule #2: Meds immediately after. Failed too, just as horribly if not worse than the first. Rule #3: No knocking, no ringing—text upon arrival. If only she manages to get there in one piece, this one is the easiest of the three. Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. "He's going to fire me. Oh no, I'm never getting a job again in this City." The thing was Tessa had never been late before. Not once. Not even that time her Uber driver took her on a surprise tour of downtown L.A. because his astrology app warned him that turning left on Wilshire during Mercury Retrograde would fracture his aura. She had managed to build her three-year work reputation on being reliable. The invisible girl who got things done, even before they were asked for. The dashboard clock blinked 7:05 a.m. as she took a sharp left onto Doheny Drive. "This can't be the day I screw up," she whispered. "This can't be the thing that tanks me." Right on cue, her phone buzzed. It was Grayson, her unrepentant asshole of a boyfriend, responding with a shallow,good morning text for an apology. He was technically the cause of this entire disaster. Last night, she had chosen to argue with him in the DMs until 2:00 a.m. over a stupid towel in an i********: story. It had started at midnight when his notification shattered her sleep. She tapped his i********: story to see a full HD gym selfie, his shirt clinging to his body as he flexed his biceps. The caption read: "Two tens in one picture… I'd like to see you try." Tessa had rolled her eyes at his vanity, sending a playful gag emoji. But as she tapped through the rest of his story, just after the pictures of weights and more mirror selfies, her thumb hovered mid-scroll at a pic that cleared the sleep from her eyes. Standing in the back corner of the mirror frame was Mia, his "toxic ex" with the body of a pilates instructor and the energy of a girl who "accidentally" bumps into your boyfriend everywhere. She was Tessa's biggest insecurity, glowing with post-workout perfection and casually mopping her forehead with... Tessa zoomed in until the pixels blurred. NO. WAY. "That's my towel!" she had screamed at her bedroom wall, recognizing the fuchsia pink hand-stitch with her own name crocheted into the corner. Wasn't Mia supposed to be blocked on all social media? Hadn't Grayson sworn he wouldn't go near her again? Her jaw clenched, praying nothing else had happened behind her back. She opened their DM thread and typed with surgical precision: Tessa: Hey. Quick question. Why is Mia in your story using your towel? The message was read at 1:13 a.m. Then... total, suspicious silence. Finally, the typing bubbles appeared. Grayson: What? That wasn't my towel, lol. Tessa narrowed her eyes, snapped a cropped screenshot of the evidence, and fired it back . Tessa: Bro. I literally crocheted my name into that towel. Are we gaslighting now or…? Grayson: Okay, fine. Yeah, it's mine. But I just ran into her. She was there. I didn't even know she worked out at that gym. Tessa: So you just gave her your towel? Out of the blue? Grayson: She asked. I was being polite. Don't make this a thing. Tessa: You said you weren't talking to her. And now she's dripping sweat into the towel I MADE for you? Grayson: Oh my god, you're being so dramatic. Tessa: No, I'm being disrespected. Grayson: You always blow everything up like it's World War 3. You need to chill. She stared at the screen, fingers twitching, looking for the perfect comeback that didn't constitute a breakup. Grayson ghosted her for fifteen minutes as she typed, erased, and typed again before finally giving up. By 2:12 a.m., he decided to end the conversation himself; Grayson: Whatever, I can't do this with you right now. Tessa: Me too, I have work tomorrow. Goodnight. But he didn't text it back. She lay there until 3:00 a.m., heart thudding, furious and hollow till she fell asleep. Now, cruising past the Hollywood Hills on three hours of sleep, her backup shirt was wrinkled like a raisin and her under-eye bags had their own carry-on luggage. The dashboard clock glared at her like a judgmental auntie: 7:20 a.m. Then her phone buzzed once on the passenger seat; 1% battery. "Great!" It may as well have flashed her the middle finger. "Okay, deep breath. When you get there, own it. Say there was traffic. No—say aliens kidn*pped your Uber driver," she muttered, rehearsing excuses like a stressed-out improv student. Soon enough, the mansion appeared in the distance, majestic and terrifying. Tessa pulled up outside the heavy iron gates. The estate was eerily quiet. She caught her reflection in the rearview mirror—her bun was sideways, and her eyeliner was essentially interpretive art. "Pull it together, Tessa. You're a professional. You are competent. You are…" Bloop. Her phone made a sad little noise and died completely in her lap. "Oh, come ON!" She slammed her hand on the steering wheel. There went Rule Number 3! Her client had been missing his morning caffeine and meds for nearly an hour, and she was parked outside his fortress looking like a hungover sitcom character. Finally she shoved the car door open, snatched her tote bag, and jogged up the long, winding driveway. The house was dark. No answer at the gate intercom. She pulled out her phone and tapped the black screen, holding the power button like she was performing CPR. It gave a half-hearted buzz, then died for good. No phone. No doorbell. No intercom. She was stranded outside a gated mansion in the Hollywood Hills, clutching a lukewarm latte, with zero connection to the outside world. "This is how it ends," she muttered, staring up at the cloudless sky. "I get fired, and I go back to retail." But then she stepped back, scanning the facade. That's when she saw it: a three-foot-wide window on the second floor, left slightly ajar. Her inner voice went off like a bad friend hyping up terrible ideas: Girl, that window is destiny. That window is job security. The rational voice chimed in: Are you seriously thinking of breaking into your own client's house? But Tessa was already wrapping the coffee cup in a scarf inside her tote like it was the crown jewels. "It's not breaking in if the window's open and you were here yesterday," she reasoned. "It's... creative reentry." She kicked off her flats, grabbed the lowest bar of the decorative trellis, and started climbing. Halfway up, she paused, gripping the cold steel. "This is so getting me arrested." But she kept going. Because at this point, there was no possible felony that could come between her and a paycheck.