My boss tagged me in the group chat: Joan, Miss Fox filed a complaint saying you left before the job was done. She just paid an extra ten thousand in rush fees and wants you back first thing tomorrow morning to reorganize her entire walk-in closet. If you blow this job, you'll owe the company triple the penalty for breach of contract!
I stared at the words on the screen, my fingers slowly curling into a fist.
Davina had no idea who I really was. She simply wanted to make life miserable for a disobedient service worker.
I could have quit on the spot.
But as a professional organizer, I had access to clients' most private spaces.
I typed back a single word: Got it.
Tomorrow, I would go back.
The next morning, I rang the doorbell of Otto's apartment right on time.
Davina answered the door. She had a sheet mask plastered across her face and looked me up and down with open disdain.
"Lucky you ran fast yesterday. Today, you're sorting every last designer bag and couture gown by color. Damage even one piece, and selling you off wouldn't cover the cost."
I slipped on sterile shoe covers and white cotton gloves, then walked into the closet.
An entire wall of display cases gleamed under recessed lighting, packed with luxury handbags.
I opened my professional organizing kit and began logging each item's details while performing dust removal and conditioning. Standard procedure for high-end work.
When I reached a Birkin, my gloved fingers brushed a slip of paper tucked inside the inner pocket.
A receipt.
The purchase date was three months ago.
The total: thirty-five thousand dollars.
Payment method: a supplementary bank card ending in 4721.
I stared at those four digits. The air locked in my lungs.
4721. That was my bank card.
Three months ago, Otto had called me in tears. He said his company's servers were about to be shut down for nonpayment. If he couldn't come up with the money, six months of work would be wiped out overnight.
That night, I ran through a downpour to three different pawnshops until one of them would take my grandmother's gold bracelet, the only thing she ever left me, and give me enough to scrape together the last fifty thousand dollars. I wired every cent to that card.
I ate nothing but plain noodles and tap water for three straight months.
And he had taken the money from my grandmother's heirloom and bought Davina a handbag.
A savage pain tore through my chest. My fingers shook so violently that the receipt crumpled into a ball in my grip.
"What do you think you're doing!"
Davina's shrill voice sliced through the air behind me.
She stormed over, snatched the bag out of my hands, and inspected every inch of it.
Then she jabbed her finger at a tiny scratch on the bottom and screamed in my face. "Are you blind? Otto bought this with the very first profit his company ever made. It's a milestone gift! And you scratched it! You pathetic, bottom-of-the-barrel nobody. You're just jealous of me, aren't you?"
I straightened to my full height and met her eyes, cold and level.
"That scratch is old. The edges are already oxidized. I didn't do it."
"You dare talk back to me!" Davina raised her hand and swung it at my face.
I caught her wrist mid-air and shoved.
She was wearing slippers. Her balance gave out and she dropped onto the carpet. Instantly, a piercing shriek ripped from her throat, and fat tears rolled down her cheeks.
The front door slammed open.
Otto burst in.
"Davina! What happened?"
Davina pointed a trembling finger at me, sobbing so hard she could barely get the words out. "Otto, this organizer ruined the bag you gave me, and then she hit me! My stomach hurts so bad!"
Otto's head snapped toward me. His eyes were vicious.
He crossed the room in three strides, and without a second of hesitation, shoved me hard in the shoulder.
"Joan! Have you lost your mind? If you have a problem, take it up with me. Don't you dare touch Davina!"
His shove sent me stumbling back five or six steps. My back slammed into the glass display cabinet in the walk-in closet.
The glass cracked with a dull, sickening crunch.
Jagged shards sliced into my arm. Blood ran down my wrist and seeped into my white glove, spreading into a wide crimson stain.
Otto saw the blood. A flicker of panic crossed his face. His hand hung in midair, as if he wanted to pull me up.
Davina wailed from the floor. "Otto, call the police! I want her arrested! I'll make sure she never works in this industry again!"
Otto yanked his hand back immediately, turned, and gathered Davina into his arms with exaggerated tenderness.
I braced myself against the wall and straightened up slowly. I didn't look at the wound on my arm.
I shoved the crumpled receipt into my pocket and picked up my organizing toolkit from the floor.
"No need to call the police." My voice was eerily calm. "The company can deduct the penalty from my paycheck."
I stepped past them both and walked out of that house built on lies.
That evening, a video shot to the top of the local trending page.
