"I understand," I interrupt, though I don't. I don't understand how I'm supposed to find a pack in two weeks. I don't understand how I'm supposed to trust anyone with that kind of access to my life after what Kael did. How this perfect opportunity came with the one condition I'm least equipped to handle.
But I also can't say no.
Not to this. Not to the chance to finally, finally get ahead instead of constantly scrambling to survive.
"Can I—" I pause, gathering my thoughts. "Can I think about it? Review the contract and see if... see if this is something I can make work?"
"Absolutely," Charlotte says warmly. "Take your time. The contract will be in your email within the hour. Look it over, think about what this would mean for you, and reach out if you have any questions. My direct number will be in the email."
"Thank you," I manage. "Really. Thank you for this opportunity."
"You're welcome, Reverie. I really hope this works out. You're exactly the kind of person we want to work with, and I think you'd be amazing in this campaign."
We say our goodbyes, and I end the call, the phone still pressed to my ear even though she's gone.
The apartment is quiet.
So quiet I can hear my own heartbeat, can hear the wind rustling the trees outside, can hear the distant sound of someone's car starting down on the street.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the screen, at the call log showing the number from Evergreen Media Collective. Proof that this actually happened. That I didn't dream the whole thing.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
The opportunity of a lifetime.
Everything I've been working toward.
But only if I have a pack.
I look around my apartment—my safe space, my sanctuary, the home I built from nothing. The fairy lights are strung haphazardly across the slanted ceiling, casting everything in soft, warm gold that makes even the shabbiest corners look magical.
I installed them myself, standing on my rickety desk chair and praying I wouldn't fall and break something important. They're the cheap kind from the hardware store, but they're mine, and they make me happy.
The stack of books on my nightstand towers precariously—my to-be-read pile that never seems to shrink no matter how many reading marathons I pull.
The three beautiful hardcover editions from my secret admirer sit on top, their sprayed edges catching the light. I still can't believe someone did that for me.A stranger.Someone who saw me want something and just...gave it to me.
My throw pillows are scattered across my bed in chaotic patterns—floral mixed with geometric mixed with solid colors that shouldn't work together but somehow do. None of them match. I bought them all secondhand from the thrift store, picking whichever ones made me smile. Kael would have hated them. Would have said they looked tacky, uncoordinated, childish.
Good. That means they're perfect.
The candles on my shelf are in ridiculous scents—"Candy Cane Forest," "Sugar Cookie Dreams," "Gingerbread Village," "Winter Wonderland Wishes." I have at least fifteen different holiday-scented candles because when they go on sale after Christmas, I buy them in bulk.
My apartment always smells like a bakery and a pine forest had a baby. It's excessive. It's extra. It's completely me.
My vision board hangs on the wall next to my desk—a collage of magazine cutouts and printed pictures and handwritten goals.
Build a life I love, it says in my bubbly handwriting.
Find joy in small moments.
Create content that matters.
Be brave enough to dream.
I made that board six months ago, on a day when everything felt impossible and I needed to remind myself why I left, why I'm fighting so hard to build something new.
And now the universe is offering me everything on that board.
