Chapter 7
Night had fallen over South Pond. The house smelled of bleach now, but it was freezing. The heating system was ancient and barely working.
Felicity's stomach growled. A loud, angry protest. She had forgotten to buy food. She had spent her forty dollars on cleaning supplies.
She sat on the floor of the kitchen. She was starving. She needed cash. Just a loan, until she got the job.
She pulled out her phone. Her fingers were numb from scrubbing the floors with cold water. She opened her messaging app. She intended to text Chantelle.
She typed quickly, her thumbs clumsy with cold: I'm starving and they froze my cards. Can you send me $500? I'll pay you back as soon as I get paid.
She hit send. She threw the phone onto the counter and went to scrub a stubborn stain on the sink.
In a private dining room at a steakhouse in Manhattan, Garold's phone lit up.
He was dining with potential investors. He glanced at the screen. A message from Felicity.
He read the preview. A smirk touched his lips.
He excused himself and stepped into the hallway.
So she broke, he thought. It took less than 24 hours. Predictable.
He typed a reply: Begging already? Come home, apologize for the scene you caused, and I'll unlock them. Stop being childish.
At South Pond, Felicity's phone pinged.
She picked it up, expecting Chantelle's usual "Sure babe! Sending now!"
She saw the sender name: Garold.
She froze. She read the message. Begging already?
Her blood boiled. The heat of her anger warmed her faster than the heater ever could. She looked at her sent message. She had sent it to him.
Mortification washed over her. She had just handed him a victory.
She typed back furiously: Wrong number. Rot in hell.
She tapped the info icon. Block Caller.
She stared at the phone. She wasn't going to let him win. She wasn't going to starve.
She opened her banking app again. She scrolled past the frozen joint accounts. She remembered. Years ago, her grandmother had set up a small offshore account for her royalties when she first started designing under the pseudonym.
She logged in. User: Aria.
Balance: $124,500.00.
It wasn't millions. But it was hers, a secret emergency fund she hadn't touched in years. Her larger royalty payments were tied up in a trust that was much harder to access quickly, but this... this was enough.
Relief washed over her, making her knees weak. She transferred funds to her digital wallet.
She opened a food delivery app. She ordered two large pizzas and a bottle of wine.
An hour later, she sat on the floor, eating a slice of pepperoni pizza. It tasted like victory.
She picked up her phone and called her lawyer, Mr. Tate.
"Mr. Tate," she said, chewing. "I want to sue for half. And I want to make it painful."
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