The wind whipped Felicity's hair across her face. The convertible top was down, and Chantelle was driving fast, the city lights fading in the rearview mirror.
"You actually did it," Chantelle yelled over the wind. "I can't believe you left the ring."
"It didn't fit anymore," Felicity said, staring at the dark highway.
They pulled into a retro diner on the outskirts of the city an hour later. It was a chrome-and-neon relic that smelled of grease and coffee. They slid into a red vinyl booth.
"So, the rumors," Chantelle said, dipping a fry into a milkshake. "Jenilee was seen at Bergdorf's buying baby clothes. It's all over the blogs."
Felicity took a fry. She felt surprisingly hungry. "Let her buy them. It's not my problem."
"What's the plan, Fel? You have no cash, no cards."
"I have a portfolio," Felicity said. "And I have an interview."
"With who?"
"Twelve Bridges."
Chantelle choked on her shake. "The fashion conglomerate? Honey, they chew people up."
"I have an in."
They finished eating, and Chantelle drove them further out, toward the coast. The GPS led them down a gravel road that hadn't been paved in decades. They pulled up to a rusted iron gate covered in ivy.
South Pond Estate.
It was her inheritance from her grandmother. It had been sitting empty for five years. The house loomed in the darkness, a Victorian structure with peeling paint and dark windows.
"Are you sure about this?" Chantelle asked, looking at the house with distaste. "It looks like the set of a horror movie."
"It's mine," Felicity said. "It's the only thing that's just mine."
She got out and unlocked the gate with a rusty key. It groaned in protest. Chantelle helped her carry the suitcase to the porch. They hugged, a fierce squeeze.
"Don't tell anyone where I am," Felicity whispered.
"Lips sealed. Call me if you get murdered by a ghost."
Chantelle drove off, taillights disappearing into the night.
Felicity entered the house. The air was stale, thick with dust and the smell of old wood. She flipped a switch. Nothing. She tried another. A lamp in the corner flickered to life, casting long, eerie shadows. The furniture was covered in white sheets, looking like phantom guests.
She pulled a sheet off the sofa. Dust clouds erupted, making her cough. She waved her hand, clearing the air.
She went to the kitchen. She turned the faucet. The pipes groaned, shuddered, and spat out a stream of brown, sludgy water.
Great. No drinking water. No food. No bedding.
She sat on the floor, opening her laptop. The battery was at 40%. She tethered it to her phone and logged into a secure email account.
User: Aria_Design
There was one new email. From: Monica Vane, Creative Director, Twelve Bridges.
Subject: Request for Interview
Dear Aria, We have reviewed your digital submission. It is... intriguing. Can you come in tomorrow at 10 AM?
Felicity typed a reply: Confirmed.
She shut the laptop. She curled up on the dusty sofa, pulling her coat over her as a blanket. The house creaked around her, settling for the night. It was cold, dirty, and lonely.
But for the first time in three years, she didn't feel suffocated.
Outside the gate, a black sedan slowed down, idled for a moment, and then sped away into the darkness.
