Chapter one
Lindsay
"No way!"
The laundry basket sits overturned by my feet, a sock draped over the edge like a surrender flag.
I can't stop staring at the television, even though the numbers are gone—replaced by weather graphics and an anchor's too-white smile.
My hands shake when I reach for the remote to rewind, but I don't press anything. I just hold it, thumb hovering.
The ticket burns against my palm, creased from how tightly I've been holding it. I smooth it out on my thigh—careful, reverent—and compare again. Six numbers. All mine. All matching.
Two point six billion dollars.
The words don't fit in my mouth. They're too big, too foreign, like trying to swallow something unchewed. I say them anyway, out loud this time, testing how they sound in my empty living room.
"Two point six billion dollars."
My voice cracks halfway through.
I laugh again, breathless and disbelieving. It turns into a sob before I can stop it.
Happy tears streak down my face and I swipe at them with my sleeve, leaving dark spots on the pink fabric. My hoodie. The ridiculous, sparkly one I only own because it was seventy percent off.
I can buy a thousand of these now. A million.
The thought makes me dizzy.
I sink back onto the couch, ticket still pressed between both hands like a prayer.
My student loans flash through my mind first. The crushing number I've been chipping away at for six years, the one that dictates every budget, every decision, every "maybe next month" when friends suggest dinner somewhere nice.
Gone.
The credit card balance from when my car died last winter and I had no choice but to fix it.
The medical bills from when I didn't have insurance for three months between jobs.
All of it, the weight that has been sitting on my chest since I graduated—erased.
My breath comes easier just thinking about it.
And work. Oh my—
The realization hits me so hard I actually gasp. No more alarm at six-thirty.
No more break-room coffee that tastes like burnt plastic.
No more scheduling meetings for people who don't say thank you, organizing travel for executives who forget my name, smiling when someone asks if I can ‘just quickly’ handle something that takes three hours.
I can walk away and never look back and it won't matter because I don't need the paycheck. I don't need the health insurance. I don't need any of it.
Freedom tastes like champagne bubbles in my throat. Bubbly and delicious.
My phone is in my hand before I consciously decide to pick it up.
I scroll to my mom's contact photo. The image of her laughing at last year's Fourth of July barbecue, sparkler in hand fills the screen when I tap her name. The dial tone pulses once. Twice.
