Savannah
You ever get fired at midnight, in the back alley of a rooftop bar, while wearing heels that cost more than your entire life is currently worth?
Yeah. Me neither. Until now.
The door slams behind me, the click of the lock way too final for my liking. I stand there like an idiot, shivering in a barely-there black dress that smells like cheap tequila and even cheaper cologne. Someone from inside yells, "Tell your escort friends not to come back either!"
Awesome. Fantastic. Add public humiliation to the running tab of the shitstorm that is my life.
Newsflash: I'm not an escort. I'm a server. Was. I was a server. But apparently when you've got boobs, legs, and a tight dress—people assume things. And when drunk tech bros start shoving cash into your cleavage and trying to "order you to-go," management doesn't care who started it. They just want the girl with the soft voice and the red lipstick gone.
That's me, by the way. Soft voice. Red lipstick. No job.
Again.
I hitch my tote higher up my shoulder, ignoring the way my bra strap is slicing into my skin. I have exactly eighteen dollars and sixty-three cents in my checking account. The number's burned into my skull like a curse. My rent is due in three days. My phone bill's overdue. My dad's hospital is sending daily reminders with bold red PAY IMMEDIATELY banners.
And now I've been mistaken for a prostitute.
Happy Tuesday.
My heels clack against the sidewalk as I make my way down the block, half limping because one of them's broken and wobbling like hell. I should take them off, but I don't. I've still got a sliver of dignity left, and barefoot on a New York sidewalk feels like surrender.
A cold wind rushes between the buildings, slicing through me. I'm still two subway lines and a ten-minute walk away from the tiny apartment I share with my best friend, Riley. She's probably curled up in bed right now, watching reruns of New Girl and waiting for me to come home with leftover wings.
Surprise, Riley. I got nothing but bruised pride and a broken shoe.
When I finally get home, the hallway smells like weed and broken dreams. The elevator's still out—because of course it is—so I drag myself up five flights of stairs and unlock our door with a key that sticks every damn time.
The second I step inside, warmth hits me. So does the scent of popcorn and that cinnamon candle Riley refuses to stop burning.
"You're home late," she calls from the couch, peeking over the top of her blanket. Her eyes narrow. "Wait. Why do you look like someone just told you the Tooth Fairy isn't real?"
I throw my tote onto the floor and kick off my busted heels with a grunt. "Because I got fired."
She blinks. "Again?"
"Again."
"Let me guess," she says, sitting up. "Someone tried to buy you for the night and you didn't say 'thank you, Daddy, may I have another?'"
"Bingo," I mutter, falling face-first into the couch beside her.
Riley doesn't say anything for a second. Then she reaches over, pulls the blanket over me, and hands me a bowl of popcorn.
"You're not a whore," she says casually. "You're just hot and broke. It's a dangerous combo."
I snort into the cushion.
This is why I love her.
Everyone else vanished the second the yacht got sold and the account balance dropped. My ex-boyfriend? Gone—cheating with a girl who still gets bottle service and wears Balenciaga on Tuesdays. My so-called best friends? Ghosted faster than you can say, "Sorry, my credit card got declined."
But not Riley.
She stuck around when the world turned its back. When my trust fund evaporated and the only thing left of the Dawson name was hospital bills and stress wrinkles.
"You know what?" she says, voice suddenly energized. "We're manifesting now. Next job will be different. Better. Higher pay. Less douchebags."
"I'll settle for one that doesn't involve being propositioned in front of my boss."
She nods solemnly. "Fair."
We sit in silence for a bit. She crunches popcorn. I try not to cry. My phone buzzes in my purse, but I ignore it. It's probably another collections call—or worse, my dad's nurse saying he needs another round of treatment I can't afford.
Eventually, Riley taps my shoulder and says, "Hey. Want to hear something insane?"
"Always."
"I found this job listing in a private women's group I'm in. Super vague. Says 'Live-in position. Six figures. Confidential client. Must be comfortable signing an NDA and relocating within 24 hours.' Weird, right?"
I groan. "Sounds like either a cult or a human trafficking ring."
"Or maybe…" She grins. "Just maybe it's a hot, reclusive billionaire looking for a fake wife."
I roll my eyes.
"Savannah," she says, serious now. "What if this is it? What if this is the weird twist your story needs?"
And that's the thing.
I am waiting for a twist. For something—anything—to change.
Because right now? My life's a slow burn in reverse. All embers and ash, and no spark left.
But I have no idea that tomorrow?
The offer comes.
The contract lands in my lap.
And by Friday night—I'll be married.
To a stranger.
By midnight.
And I won't even know his favorite color.