Chapter 1

I shoved the door shut with my hip, arms heavy with shopping bags, and tossed my keys onto the little table by the entryway. The bags swung against my legs with each step, glossy and loud, and it made me smirk because every logo was a little victory, Gucci, Dior, Versace. At least five bags in total, and all of them mine.

I marched straight into the living room, letting them spill across the couch like trophies. My phone was already in my other hand, thumb flicking through notifications, half-distracted as I kicked my shoes off. The floor felt cool under my bare feet.

Sarah. I needed to tell her. She’d scream when she saw the new heels. I pressed her name and held the phone to my ear, already pacing in front of the window.

“Babe,” I said as soon as she picked up, “you’re coming over tonight. I swear you’re going to die when you see what I just got.”

Her laugh bubbled through the speaker. “What did you do now?”

“I shopped. Like ... a lot. I literally couldn’t stop. These heels? Insane. The dress? It’s criminal how good I look in it. You need to see everything, like right now.” I flopped down onto the couch, bags rustling around me like a nest.

Sarah sighed but I could hear the smile in her voice. “You’re wild. I’ll come after dinner, but I’ve got to finish this project for class first.”

“Ugh, don’t even say the word ‘class.’ I swear I’m allergic to assignments. Just bring wine, okay? You’ll thank me later.”

We chatted a little longer, trashing one of our professors, giggling about some frat boy Sarah was eyeing, nothing serious. Eventually, she made her excuse about needing to work. I pouted into the phone, then hung up and tossed it onto the pile of bags.

I stretched, stood, and padded toward my bedroom. Time to get comfortable. My shopping dress hit the floor in seconds, replaced with something looser, skimpier, tiny shorts that clung to my ass and a crop tank I’d “borrowed” from Sarah months ago and never returned. My hair tumbled free as I shook it out in front of the mirror, satisfied with the lazy-sexy look.

That’s when the vibration buzzed against the nightstand.

I frowned, picked up my phone, thumb sliding across the screen.

Mom [5:42 PM] Did you pay rent yet?

My stomach dipped.

I stared at the message like it might delete itself if I waited long enough. Rent. Fuck. I’d completely forgotten. It was due yesterday.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I sat on the edge of the bed, phone balanced on my knee, tapping through my bank app.

The number glared back at me. My balance was pathetic, barely enough for Starbucks and Uber rides, nowhere near what Doug expected for the house.

I sucked my teeth and rolled my eyes, tossing the phone onto the blanket. “Whatever.”

It wasn’t like I felt guilty. Spending on myself wasn’t wrong. Clothes, shoes, makeup, that was survival. Rent? Rent was boring. Rent was ... inconvenient. And inconveniences could always be smoothed over later.

Still, mom’s text sat there, bold and sharp on my screen. The longer I ignored it, the heavier it felt.

I muttered to myself, falling back onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. “I’ll deal with it. Somehow.”

I pushed myself up off the bed with a groan, padding back down the hallway, hair swaying over my shoulders as I crossed the open space toward the living room. The bags still sat where I’d left them earlier, glossy logos flashing like guilty neon signs. I was about to scoop them up and drag them into my bedroom when the sharp knock at the door froze me mid-step.

My stomach lurched. Somebody just knocked.

I almost ignored it. Whoever it was could fuck off, I wasn’t in the mood. But the sound came again, steady, patient.

I cursed under my breath, straightened my little crop tank as best I could, and stomped toward the door barefoot. When I swung it open, the sight hit me like a slap.

Doug Johnson. My landlord.

The sight of him standing there, broad shoulders filling the doorway, jeans and polo so ordinary they made him look like someone’s dad, it scrambled me worse than if it had been a cop or a bill collector. I was suddenly aware of my bare legs, my tiny shorts clinging indecently to my ass, the way my tank top dipped low across my chest. My skin prickled as if I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

He looked at me without hurry, brown eyes calm, unreadable. “Hi, Chloe.”

I swallowed. “Um. Hi.”

The silence stretched, awkward enough to burn, so I stepped back and pushed the door wider. “Come in.”

He didn’t hesitate. Just brushed past me with the quiet confidence of someone who’d been in the house a hundred times, which, technically, he had ... maintenance checks, lease signings, things I’d never cared to sit through.

I trailed behind him, suddenly conscious of the soft slap of my bare feet against the hardwood. My voice came out higher than I wanted, “Uh, what brings you by? Want a coffee or something?”

Doug glanced at me over his shoulder, mouth twitching like the hint of a smile but not quite there. “I usually don’t turn down coffee,” he said. “But not today.”

I blinked, heat crawling into my cheeks. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I crossed my arms under my chest, then instantly regretted it when I realized it only pushed my tits up more.

He let the silence hang again, his gaze drifting across the room until it landed on the couch.

The bags. My trophies, sprawled out like evidence.

“You’ve been shopping,” he said, not accusing, not even asking, just stating.

The guilt stabbed sharp and fast, though I plastered a grin over it. “Yeah, just a few things. Nothing major.” I tried to wave it off, but my laugh sounded too thin.

His eyes lingered on the logos, then flicked back to me. Calm, steady. He didn’t have to say it, he knew.

I bit my lip and crossed the room to sink onto the couch beside the pile, like sitting with them could somehow hide them from view. Doug lowered himself onto the far end of the same couch, not close, but his presence filled the space between us until the air felt thick.

The cushions dipped under his weight. His forearm rested along the back of the couch like he belonged there. He didn’t fidget, didn’t glance at his phone, didn’t rush. He just sat, eyes on me, waiting.

And I hated how my chest felt tight, how my fingers fiddled with the strap of one bag, twisting the ribbon bow until it nearly came undone.

“So...” I finally managed, throat dry. “If it’s not for coffee ... what are you here for?”

The silence stretched until I couldn’t stand it anymore. My tongue darted across my lips, gloss tacky under the living room light. “Okay, you’re just ... what, here to inspect my shopping habits now?” I tried for flippant, rolling my eyes, even though my pulse thudded hard in my throat.

Doug didn’t bite. His gaze was level, unreadable, the way a teacher might look at a student waiting to see if they’d admit to copying their homework. “I’m here for the rent.”

The word hit like a stone dropping into water, rippling through my gut. I shifted, arms hugging tighter around myself. “Right. Rent. Yeah, it’s ... it’s fine. Covered.”

Doug’s eyebrow rose, just barely. “Covered?”

“Yes.” I let the word pop, sharp as a bubble. “I transferred it this morning. Should’ve cleared already.”

He leaned back, settling into the couch like he was prepared to sit there all evening if that’s what it took. “Show me.”

My throat closed. “What?”

“Show me the transfer,” he repeated, steady as stone. “Receipt. Screenshot. Something.”

I laughed, too loud, waving my hand like that could dismiss him. “God, do you really need to micromanage it? It’s there. You’ll see it tomorrow. Or the next day. Bank delays or whatever.”

Doug didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched me with that calm, patient stare that made my skin crawl. “You don’t have it, do you.”

Heat flared up my neck, blotching my cheeks. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t have the rent,” he said again, not cruel, not angry, just like he was stating the time of day.

I sat up straighter, bristling. “Yes, I do. I told you, I already-”

“Chloe.” His voice cut through mine, quiet but weighted, like he’d just dropped an anchor between us. “If you had it, you’d have shown me by now.”

My mouth opened, then shut. My fingers twisted harder in the ribbon handle of a Dior bag until it bit into my skin. I hated how warm my face felt, how transparent I suddenly was under his gaze.

“You’re mistaken,” I said finally, forcing a smirk, though my voice shook. “I’m not some broke little girl you can corner. I said it’s covered, and it is. So maybe you should-”

“Stop lying.”

The words were soft, calm, but they slid into me sharper than any shout could have. I stared at him, caught, every nerve buzzing with the shame of it.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. He just sat there, broad and steady at the other end of the couch, while I shifted against the pile of shopping bags like they were suddenly weights dragging me down.

Finally, I muttered, “Maybe it’s not in yet. Maybe it’s ... processing.”

Doug tilted his head, a ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Processing,” he echoed.

I bit down on my lip hard, refusing to look away. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll handle it. You don’t need to sit here acting like some kind of debt collector.”

His eyes held mine, unwavering, until I had to glance down at my bare knees, smooth and pale under the glow of the lamp. My pulse was racing so fast I thought he might hear it.

He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped. His voice was low, even. “I’m not here to hound you, Chloe. I’m here to be clear. You don’t have the money. That means we find another way.”

His words hung in the air, thick and heavy, wrapping around me like smoke I couldn’t escape.

“Another way,” he’d said, calm as if we were discussing a utility bill.

I stared at him, my voice catching in my throat before spilling out, brittle and sharp. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

Doug didn’t move, didn’t blink. His eyes stayed fixed on me, steady, patient. “I mean you might not have the money, Chloe. But you have other talents. Talents that can cover the rent.”

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. Heat crawled up my chest. I laughed, a harsh little scoff, desperate to keep control. “What ... what are you even saying? That I should, what, sell these?” I yanked one of the glossy bags off the couch and tossed it in his direction, the tissue paper spilling out in a ridiculous flourish. “Go hawk my clothes on eBay? Is that it?”

His head tilted slightly, like he was studying a child throw a tantrum. “Not what I had in mind.”

The room seemed to shrink around me. My skin prickled, every nerve awake. “Then what?” I snapped, my voice thinner than I wanted.

Doug leaned back against the couch, broad shoulders sinking into the cushions. His gaze didn’t waver. His voice came out low, calm, terrifyingly sure. “Your pretty mouth. Your pretty hands. That’s enough.”