Chapter 11 Under The Bed
Millie’s eyes cracked open to the obnoxious screech of her phone alarm. She groaned, smacking it silent. Her head was throbbing from too little sleep, and the thought of her “day off” just meant more side gigs to cover rent.
She dragged herself out of bed, her socks catching on the frayed carpet as she shuffled to the kitchen. The counter was a mess—greasy takeout boxes and crumpled napkins, proof of another dinner scraped together on a budget that never stretched far enough.
Cody was sprawled on the sagging couch, the TV blaring some morning news show. The anchor was going on about some attack at a ritzy party in France—masked gunmen crashing a fancy villa, rich people running for their lives.
“Wild, right?” Cody said, crunching on a stale chip he’d dug out of a bag on the coffee table. “Bunch of masked dudes shooting up some billionaire’s party. Rich people drama.”
“Yeah,” Millie muttered, rummaging for a clean mug. “Money doesn’t fix everything, I guess.” Her voice was flat, distracted. She wasn’t really listening to Cody or the news—just going through the motions, trying to shake off the fog of exhaustion.
The TV cut to a reporter shoving a mic in some socialite’s face. The woman’s mascara was running, her diamond earrings catching the light like they were mocking her tears. The ticker at the bottom said it was some exclusive estate in the French countryside. Another shot showed the aftermath: smashed champagne glasses, a tacky chandelier crashed on the floor, and blood staining what looked like stupidly expensive silk drapes.
Cody whistled. “Somebody’s always pissed at what they’ve got, huh?” He tossed the remote onto the couch, where it landed with a dull thud.
Millie poured coffee, the cheap grounds bitter even through the steam. “The world’s getting crazier,” she said, more to herself than to him. She hesitated, stirring her coffee longer than necessary. “Hey, I tried calling you last night.”
Cody didn’t look up from the TV. “Yeah? My phone died. Left it at the bar.”
Her stomach twisted, but she forced her face to stay neutral. “Oh. Okay.” It shouldn’t bother her. It was just a dead phone.
“Probably still on the charger at Simon’s,” Cody added, oblivious, shoving another chip in his mouth. “I’ll grab it later.”
She nodded, dumping too much milk into her coffee to mask the taste. It didn’t help. The news droned on about rising tensions, the gap between rich and poor, and all that stuff that felt like it belonged to another planet.
She sipped her coffee, burning her tongue, and glanced at the clock. Time to get moving for that cleaning shift. Another day of scrubbing someone else’s floors, just to keep the lights on in this dump. The TV flickered with images of that ruined villa, and for a second, she wondered what it’d be like to have problems that big. Then she shook it off. Her problems were plenty big enough.
Soon, Millie stepped into the glossy high-rise lobby, her cleaning bag slung over her shoulder, her sneakers squeaking on the polished marble. It felt like stepping into a different world. Her body ached, but rent wasn’t going to pay itself.
The apartment she was sent to was a whole production. The living room looked like a movie set had exploded—tripods everywhere, ring lights blasting everything in a fake, too-bright glow. In the middle of it all was a blonde woman who radiated the kind of energy that made Millie feel even more tired.
“Hi! Millie, right?” the woman said, practically bouncing.
“Amelia,” she corrected; only her friends called her Millie, keeping her voice polite but flat.
“I’m Sabrina. Clara said you’re a rock star. I’m so pumped you’re here!”
Pumped? For a cleaning lady? Millie raised an eyebrow but just nodded. “Cool. Where do you want me to start?”
“My bedroom,” Sabrina said, already distracted by her phone. “It’s, like, a total disaster.”
Millie bit back a sarcastic shocker and headed that way. Sabrina trailed behind, filming herself for what had to be her millionth vlog of the week.
“Hey, guys! Check out this view—worth every penny of the rent, right?” she said, sweeping her phone toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Also, last night? Totally wild. Like, next-level insane.”
Millie tuned her out, stepping into the bedroom. It was exactly as bad as she’d expected. Clothes were everywhere—designer tags tangled with crumpled receipts, half-empty makeup tubes, and a random energy drink can. It looked like a tornado had hit a boutique.
“Sometimes I think I’m meant to live out of a suitcase,” Sabrina called from the living room, her voice all bubbly and performative.
“Yeah, must be rough,” Millie muttered under her breath, picking up a pair of silk shorts. “Maybe I’m the one living out of a suitcase. Or a princess who forgot she’s royalty and got stuck cleaning up after influencers.” She smirked at her own joke, but it faded fast.
As she tossed a sparkly sequined top onto the bed, something shiny caught her eye. A condom wrapper, half-buried in the pile of clothes. She snorted, a mix of amusement and disgust bubbling up. Well, someone had a night. Sabrina’s “insane” comment suddenly made more sense.
She kept working, shoving clothes into a hamper, when another glint stopped her. Under the bed, peeking out from beneath a crumpled magazine, was another empty condom wrapper. Millie froze, staring at it.
Of course, Sabrina had to flaunt her “wild” life for her followers. Typical influencer nonsense—always performing, always oversharing. She shook her head. Not her business. Just clean the damn room and get out.
Then her phone buzzed, pulling her out of her thoughts. It was a text from Clara: “Heads up, if she films you, ask for a talent fee.” Attached was a link to Sabrina’s livestream.
Millie sighed, hesitated, and then tapped play.
On the screen, Sabrina was lounging on the couch, all giggles. “So, you guys, it was just a dumb dare, okay? Like, bring home a cute bartender for a little after-party vibe? Totally crazy, but you have to live a little, right?” She tossed her hair, laughing like it was all a big joke.
But somehow, Millie’s stomach dropped. Her heart started pounding, a sick feeling twisting inside her. It was stupid and irrational, but something about Sabrina’s words hit too close to home.
She forced the feeling down and focused on the task at hand, crawling under the bed to fish out stray shoes and crumpled magazines. Her fingers brushed against something worn and familiar—a scuffed black leather case. Her breath hitched. She knew it instantly.
Cody’s phone charger. The one he was always misplacing.
What the hell was it doing in Sabrina’s apartment?