Leah & Gareth
“Please, I just need a little more time,” she says, hurrying down the sun-drenched sidewalk, voice cracking into the phone. Late afternoon light glints off passing cars, shadows stretching long across the boulevard.
“We’ve already granted multiple extensions, Ms. Cross.”
“But I’ve never been late before!”
“Actually, you have. Several times.”
“What? No, I—”
But the truth hits her. She’s never actually handled the payments herself. The trust always took care of it. Her stomach sinks.
“Just a few weeks—”
“We’re sorry, Ms. Cross.”
She stops cold on the sidewalk, lowering the phone with a shaky breath. Then she hears it before she sees it—a sleek Rolls-Royce Dawn gliding past. Two teenage girls in designer denim, laughter spilling between them. One lifts her phone, then they lean in, sticking their tongues out for a selfie, oblivious to Leah standing on the curb.
The engine’s elegant roar follows them down the block, a reminder of everything slipping through her fingertips. And as she turns up the quiet side street leading to the front gate, that’s when it hits her: None of this is mine. Not the private drive, fragrant with sage and poppy. Not the dappled light filtering through the sycamores, shading the road like a forest trail winding lazily toward 222 Corpse Flower, the home she once thought of as a sanctuary. Now revealed as fiction, because she was never more than an occupant. Just a guest. A renter in someone else’s fantasy.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
She hurries across the courtyard and bursts into the leasing office. “Gareth, hi!” she says, forcing a bright smile, masking her panic.
He looks up from his monitor, bored already. “How can I help you, Leah?”
“So… I just need a little more time on my rent. Nothing major. You know how it is.”
His brow ticks up as he lets out a dismissive laugh. “You’ll have to take it up with management.”
“I already did,” Leah says, her voice almost shaking. “They won’t budge. So… I thought maybe you could talk to them.”
“That puts me in a tough spot, Leah.”
“I’m not asking for a handout, Gareth. Just a grace period. Like, an extra month.”
“A month’s not a grace period. It’s a lease violation.”
“Okay. How about fifteen days? Please, Gareth?”
“Fine,” he says, tapping his pen against the desk like a gavel. “I’ll talk to them. No promises. And don’t expect miracles.”
“Thank you,” Leah says, reining in the desperation. “Truly. You won’t regret it.”
He smirks to himself as she goes, then lets out a dramatic sigh, like she’d just proved his point and bored him doing it, but not so bored he doesn’t miss the obvious.
Wendy was right. Leah’s finances weren’t just unstable; they were on the verge of collapse. Gareth had seen the quiet desperation in her eyes. This was more than a missed payment. For a moment, he almost feels sorry for her. But it passes. Through the leasing office window, he watches her cross the courtyard and vanish into her unit. Then, moments later, Wendy steps through the gate, just getting home.
Gareth seizes the moment, slipping out to intercept her at the stairwell.
“You called it,” he says, blocking Wendy’s path.
“Called what?” she asks, uninterested, even as she looks up from her phone.
“Leah. She was just here. Begging for a rent extension.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. She looked like hell. You might’ve been more right than I thought.”
“Not sure why you ever doubted me, Gareth.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says with a dry laugh.
“Poor thing,” Wendy murmurs, the corner of her mouth barely lifting. “She never really belonged here anyway.”
Then, she turns and walks off, Ferragamo heels clicking against the tile, fading into the courtyard’s hush.
Funny, Gareth thinks, watching her go. How fast the tables turn. Poor Leah—so much money, all of it spent, or lost, or wherever it went—and not even a single safety net.