The silence in this two-bedroom house is a taunt. In Manhattan, I never knew what silence sounded like; I only knew the hum of a Maybach engine, the filtered chatter of personal assistants, and the way the world held its breath whenever I walked into a room. Here, the silence is just the sound of a leaky faucet I can’t afford to fix, and it's driving me to the brink of insanity.
I looked at the kitchen clock: 6:15 AM.
I’d spent the last hour staring at my closet, or what passed for one. My clothes looked out of place—tailored silk and sharp lines hanging against the cheap, flimsy drywall of a house that felt like it was made of cardboard. I needed to get to the office, which meant navigating the morning commute. I didn't have a car. I didn't have a driver. I had to figure out a bus ro
