The coffee shop downstairs opened every morning at six-thirty, and each evening, city lights shimmered beyond my windows like little promises.
The apartment wasn’t fancy. The elevator rattled. The radiator hissed throughout winter. The kitchen tiles probably remembered the Reagan administration.
But I adored every inch of it.
I covered the rent myself.
Purchased the furniture myself.
Refinished the floors myself until my hands were sore.
I painted the yellow walls cream because after growing up surrounded by my family’s constant noise, I wanted somewhere peaceful enough to hear my own thoughts.
For three years, 4B was my sanctuary.
Then my family decided the sanctuary looked suspiciously like available property.
That Tuesday evening, I had just returned home from work. I was curled up on the couch with coffee when I heard my lock turning.
My stomach tightened.
I hadn’t invited anybody.
I had ignored my mother’s previous three texts.
And the spare key she had was supposedly “for emergencies.”
Apparently Chloe’s social-media career counted.
