Aria exited the luxury tower, blending into the morning rush hour. She felt like a ghost haunting the living.
She realized she had no cash for a cab. She dug through her coat pocket and found a crumpled twenty-dollar bill-a miracle, or forgotten change.
She hailed a yellow cab. "Upper East Side," she told the driver, giving Ignacio's address.
The ride was slow. Traffic mocked her urgency.
She planned to beg Ignacio. Just for her clothes. Her wallet. Her jewelry.
The cab pulled up to her old building.
Aria's heart sank.
There was a pile of cardboard boxes on the wet sidewalk. She recognized her designer luggage, thrown haphazardly on top.
Aria rushed out of the cab, forgetting to wait for her change.
The doorman, a man she had tipped generously for two years, avoided her gaze.
She dropped to her knees on the pavement. She ripped open the boxes.
Her clothes were wrinkled. Some were stained with coffee-Ignacio's spite.
She searched frantically for her jewelry box.
It was gone. Or empty. Ignacio had kept the valuables.
Aria screamed in frustration. A pedestrian jumped, startled.
She tried to run into the building lobby.
The doorman stepped in front of her. "Mr. Cohen said no visitors."
"I lived here!" she screamed. "My name is on the mail!"
"Not anymore, Ms. Chaney. Please. Don't make me call the cops."
Aria backed away, defeated.
Rain started to drizzle again, soaking her pajamas and the ruined coat.
She sat on her suitcase. She looked up at the grey sky.
She was truly homeless. No fiancé. No home. And a fifty-thousand-dollar debt to a man named Burke.
A black car drove by slowly. The tinted windows hid the occupant, but Aria was too miserable to notice.
She needed to call someone. She remembered her phone. Maybe it was in the box.
She dug through the mess of clothes. Her fingers brushed against cold metal.
Her phone. The screen was cracked, spiderwebbed, but it lit up.
A barrage of notifications flooded the screen.
