I drag myself out of bed, every movement slow and heavy. I haven’t slept much. Most of the night was spent scrolling through roommate ads on my cracked phone, each one more hopeless than the last. Guys with mugshots in their profile photos. “Creative types” who want to pay rent in “trade.” A woman named Skylar who said her last roommate “left without saying goodbye” and posted five blurry pictures of a bathroom covered in what I hope was red wine.
I can’t do it. I can’t move in with strangers who sell weed out of the kitchen, or think showering is optional. And the alternative—therealalternative—makes my skin crawl.
I sit at the wobbly table in my kitchen, shoving eviction notices and utility bills aside, and stare at my phone again. My mother’s number is right at the top of my contacts, the only one starred. I haven’t called her in months. Not since the last fight.
If you can’t make it in the city, come home. Your father will find you a job at the plant. This voice acting nonsense… It’s not real work. It’s not decent.
Her words echo in my head. “Not decent.” If she ever found out what I really do—the stories I record, the men and women who pay to hear my voice in the dark—she’d probably have a heart attack on the spot. Or worse, she’d tell my father. He always said a girl’s reputation was her “only currency.” He controlled every penny, and every hour of my day until the moment I escaped.
I can still picture his face, red and twisted with rage the last time he raised his hand to me. The humiliation of begging for a ride to the bus station. The sick thrill of freedom, cut through with terror, as I rode into Manhattan with nothing but a backpack and a head full of impossible dreams.
I promised myself I’d never go back. Never crawl home a failure.
But I’m out of options.
I try to pull myself together, wash my face at the tiny sink, brush my teeth with the last squeeze of toothpaste. My reflection in the cracked mirror looks tired, haunted. My eyes are red, cheeks hollow. A stranger stares back at me—a girl who never wanted this life, but couldn’t seem to find another.
My phone buzzes again: another alert from the job site. I scroll through the listings, but it’s the same dead ends. Internships with no pay. Gigs that would barely cover a subway pass. “Flexible opportunities for self-starters” which is, in translation, commission only.
There’s a stack of unopened mail on the counter. I riffle through it, hands shaking. There are past-due notices, bank statements, and a letter from a college friend I haven’t talked to in years. I pause on that one, running my thumb over the envelope, wishing for the hundredth time that things had turned out differently.
I’d wanted to be an actress. Onstage, under lights. I wanted people to clap for me, to remember my name. That dream faded fast in the city—burned away by rent and bills and the sharp-edged reality of what it means to survive alone. The only place my voice commands any attention now is in a sound booth, whispering fantasies for strangers I’ll never meet.
Sometimes, when I’m recording, I pretend they’re listening because theylikeme. Because I’m special, talented, or beautiful. Not just a voice for hire, a pretty sound to fill the silence.
A single tear escapes, tracks down my cheek. I wipe it away and grit my teeth.
No more crying. No one’s coming to save you, Zee.
I spend the morning firing off applications to anything I can find. Admin jobs. Call centers. Even a temp position at a funeral home. I take a breath and write to a cousin I barely know, asking if she needs a roommate. I watch the cursor blink and blink and finally hit send.
By noon, I still haven’t eaten. My last five dollars are in my pocket. I can’t bring myself to call my parents. I can already imagine my mother’s voice.“I told you so. I always told you so.”
I want to scream.
Instead, I go back to the job boards. One new message sits in my inbox—Vasiliev Holdings LLC:
I blink. Once. Twice. My brain doesn’t process it.
I sit up, hair falling into my face. My hands shake as I swipe open the email, heart pounding so hard it drowns out the noise of the city.
Dear Ms. Zatanna DeLaurentis,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for the position of Personal Assistant to the CEO of Vasiliev Holdings LLC. Please see the attached document for details regarding your compensation, benefits, and start date. Kindly confirm your acceptance at your earliest convenience.
Congratulations, and welcome to Vasiliev Holdings.
I stare at the words. Reread them. I check the sender’s address, convinced it’s a scam. But it’s official. There’s an offer letter attached. My name. The job title. The salary.
I sit there, frozen, for what feels like ten minutes, before I even remember to breathe.
Finally, I grab my phone and dial Frankie, my best friend since high school. She picks up on the third ring, voice as bright and sharp as ever.
“Zee? Everything okay?”
I don’t bother with hello. “Frankie. I got a job.”
Silence, then a whoop so loud I have to pull the phone away. “No way! Tell me everything! Did you finally get the gig at that tech start-up? Or—wait, did Jake actually give you a raise?”
