CHAPTER 1 — RENT, REGRETS & RUNNING
It was a dizzy, nauseatingly normal morning—
the kind where my hangover was louder than my heartbeat—
until someone knocked on the door.
Knock. Knock.
The door creaked open, and I flashed my deadliest smile.
"Good morning, Miss Cherrivielle. You are looking as beautiful as ever."
She was a middle-aged, white-haired woman aging like expired milk.
But compliments work better than pepper spray on her.
"Oh, really?"
She gasped, twirling her hair like a schoolgirl.
Then her eyes sharpened.
"Now give me the rent, dear."
"Rent?" I repeated, like the word personally offended me.
"Yes, rent."