Leah
Her banking app stares back at her, and it’s so bad she could cry all over again. Six hundred dollars and forty-two cents. Savings: zero.
It doesn’t make sense. But of course it does. Leah’s never budgeted. Never had to even think about money. The trust fund always floated her. Checking, savings… what was the difference?
Rent’s due next week. Credit cards are already past due. And then there’s food, gas, dry cleaning.
She forces herself to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Then she sees him through the window, crossing the courtyard toward the leasing office.
She’s already halfway there when she realizes she’s still barefoot. “Any update?” she asks, stepping into Gareth’s path.
“Leah, I told you I put in the request. It’s not up to me.”
“I just need more time,” she says, trying not to sound like she’s pleading.
“And I get that,” Gareth replies with a tinge of practiced sympathy. “But I don’t make the decisions. Management does. My hands are tied.”
She folds her arms, a dry laugh slipping out. “So what, I’m supposed to just… get a roommate?”
“Leah, you know the building’s strict about that. If you’re serious, you’d need approval. Otherwise…”
He hesitates, eyes flicking past her shoulder. Someone’s coming. “You might want to start looking at other options. Something more in line with your… income level.”
Her income level? Before she can respond, a voice cuts in from behind—
“Maybe ease up, man,” Shane says, crossing the courtyard, fresh from a run. Shirtless, sweat glinting on his skin, he catches his breath, barely glancing at Leah, but it’s enough. She tells herself it’s just adrenaline. Not the sound of his voice. Not the way he looks at her.
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“Just stating facts,” Gareth mutters, already walking off.
Leah watches him go, then glances at Shane. “Thanks,” she says quieter than she means to.
He shrugs, toweling sweat from his neck. “For the record, a roommate wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”
“You volunteering?” Her tone lifts, lighter now. Almost flirtatious.
“Not a chance,” he says, huffing a laugh. “But you’ll figure it out.”
She’s still thinking about Shane’s roommate comment by late afternoon, rereading the draft for what feels like the hundredth time.
A roommate ad. Casual, breezy. Carefully worded to sound like it’s no big deal, like it’s just for fun. She scans it again, pausing over the placement of an emoji, adjusting the rhythm of a throwaway joke. Perfect. Almost.
She inhales. Posts it. The screen refreshes. The story goes live.
Then she hears a voice: “Settling nicely into your shoebox, I see.”
Leah startles, then turns toward the door. Ugh. What now?
“Can I help you, Wendy?” she bites back. “I know it must be hard with no lackey to abuse anymore. That’s how you get off, right?”
Wendy’s mouth curves, a hint of glee behind the cruelty. “Just checking in. Hope you’re keeping up. At work… and with your rent?”
A flicker of panic crosses Leah’s face before she smothers it. How the hell does that nasty, bleach-blonde biatch know about my rent?
“On that note,” Wendy continues breezily, “I’ve updated your expense account. You’re now allotted ten dollars a week.”
Leah feels her gut sink, like the universe is doubling down. As if her spiraling finances, this shithole office, and the daily grind of swallowing what her life’s become weren’t already degrading enough.
“Ten dollars? What am I even supposed to do with that?”
“That’s at least two pastries from the lobby café. Maybe show a little gratitude, Leah. Hate to break it to you, but NDA isn’t here to subsidize your lifestyle. There are starving kids in tent cities less than a mile from here who’d kill for ten bucks a week. If you’re not interested, donate it.”
Leah just stares.
“And FYI, use it or lose it. We’re not your personal piggy bank.”
Then Wendy’s gone, Ferragamos pounding, fading down the hall.
Leah picks up her phone. “Ten fucking bucks,” she mutters as she checks Instagram. She swipes to her story. Just six measly views. That’s it?
Worse, she hates to admit it—Wendy’s right. She needs a win. Now.
And, fuck. She really needs a roommate.