Chapter 1- Not The Life I Asked For

BROOKLYN

The sound of boiling water was the only thing filling the silence of our tiny apartment. It hissed from the old stove like it was angry too. I stared at the packet of instant noodles in my hand and sighed. Again.

“Dinner’s ready in ten,” I called out, forcing cheer into my voice.

From the bedroom came a soft “Okay!” followed by a cough. Elliot’s been doing that a lot lately. I told myself it was just a cold, even though deep down, I knew I was lying. Again.

I poured the noodles into the pot and stirred like I was on autopilot. Rent was due in five days. My second job hasn't paid me yet, and the electric bill was taped to the fridge like it was mocking me.

This wasn’t the life I asked for.

At twenty-four, I thought I’d be doing something creative. Maybe teaching. Maybe traveling. Not juggling two minimum-wage jobs, making late-night ramen, and pretending everything was okay for the sake of my eleven-year-old brother.

After our parents died three years ago, I didn’t have time to grieve. I didn’t have time for anything.

I signed papers I barely understood, quit college, took whatever jobs I could get, and promised Elliot we’d be okay.

I was still trying to keep that promise.

“Brook?” Elliot appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes and looking smaller than he should. “Do we have any orange juice?”

I shook my head. “Water tonight. I’ll grab some this weekend, okay?”

He didn’t complain. He never did.

We sat together on the couch, eating noodles from mismatched bowls. The TV flickered in the background, playing something neither of us were really watching.

“I got a B on my science quiz,” Elliot mumbled between bites.

I smiled, real this time. “Proud of you, kid. You’re killing it.”

He smiled back, but it didn’t last. “Do you think… we’ll be okay?”

My heart cracked a little. I hated that he had to ask.

“We will,” I said, even though my throat felt tight. “I’ll make sure of it.”

After I tucked him in and double-checked that his inhaler was on the nightstand …just in case.

I sat at the wobbly kitchen table with my secondhand laptop and a cup of coffee I couldn’t afford.

It was nearly midnight. I should’ve been asleep.

I had a seven-hour shift in the morning and a babysitting gig right after.

But my brain wouldn’t shut up. It kept looping through numbers,bills, paychecks, debts,like a cruel math problem I couldn’t solve.

I stared at the cracked screen, opened my inbox, and scanned through the usual: job alerts I’d already seen, a few rejections, spam from stores I never shopped at.

I clicked one out of habit,a “We’re not moving forward at this time” message from a job I couldn’t even remember applying for. I deleted it without reading the rest.

This had become normal. Applying for jobs I was either overqualified for or barely eligible for, just for the chance to maybe make enough money to survive.

“We’re sorry,” “We’ll keep your resume on file,” “Thank you for your interest.” All just nicer ways to say: No.

Sometimes I wondered what it would’ve been like if things were different. If Mom and Dad hadn’t gotten into that car that night.

If I hadn’t picked up the phone to hear a stranger tell me my world had just fallen apart.

I remembered sitting in our old kitchen, laughing as Elliot spilled cereal everywhere.Dad had music playing on the radio, and Mom had flour on her nose from baking.

We were loud, chaotic, messy — but happy.

Now everything was quiet. Too quiet.

I rubbed my eyes, snapped back to the present. I couldn’t afford to break down. Not tonight.

Then I saw it,an email with no subject line. Just two words in the preview: High-paying opportunity.

Normally, I’d delete it. Too scammy. Too weird.

But something about tonight made me click.

We’re looking for someone discreet, available immediately, and willing to sign a confidentiality agreement.

Compensation: substantial. No experience necessary. This is a temporary arrangement, but could change your life.

If interested, reply to schedule a private interview.

No name. No company info. No contact details beyond a reply-to email.

My scam radar was screaming, but I didn’t close the window.

What kind of job even was this? Escort? Personal assistant? Rich person needing a nanny? It was too vague and way too suspicious.

But I couldn’t stop staring at the words

“Could change your life.”

I looked around the apartment again. At the pile of unpaid bills.

At the peeling wallpaper. At the sleeping boy who trusted me with everything.

I had nothing left to give. No savings. No backup plan. Just me, barely holding it together.

And maybe that was exactly why I clicked reply.

I hesitated, fingers hovering over the keys.

This was probably a mistake.

Then again, maybe not.

I typed: Hi I am available..when and where?

Then hit send before I could think about it too hard.

I leaned back in my chair and exhaled slowly. The air felt heavier now, like I’d just stepped over a line I couldn’t go back from.

But honestly?

I didn’t have the luxury of playing it safe anymore.