4. Ivy
IVY
S omething’s off.
Again.
It starts with the knock—sharp, fast, and completely unexpected. I freeze with my hand halfway to my coffee cup, heart thudding way too hard for something so simple.
No one knocks on my door.
Not neighbors. Not maintenance. Definitely not anything I ordered online because I don’t spend money. I don’t have anything to spend.
I step to the door quietly, already scanning for the nearest heavy object in case this is how it ends. The chain stays on while I crack the door open.
A delivery guy stands there in a puffer jacket, bored expression, clipboard in hand while he meets my almost frantic expression.
“Ivy Callahan?” he asks.
I nod.
He motions toward the hallway behind him. “You’ve got…a lot. Need you to sign for it. And probably for you to open the door if you want help carrying it in.”
“A lot?”
He steps aside, and my brain stutters.
There are boxes. Plural. Large. Branded with my company’s logo. Professional, sleek. Like something you’d send a CEO, not a Tier Two grunt trying to keep her rent paid and food in her stomach.
“Are you sure those are for me?” I ask.
He gives me a look like he doesn’t get paid enough for questions. “Says Ivy Callahan. Apartment 3B. Signature?”
He holds the tablet out expectantly.
Quickly, I unlatch the door and open it.
Later, I’ll probably realize that was my first mistake. But I’m too busy making my second mistake to notice. I sign for the delivery.
He rolls a dolly into the entryway, unloads everything, and disappears without another word. Just me and a pile of what the actual hell stacked in my tiny studio apartment.
I shut the door. Lock it. Lock it again.
Then I just… stare until I can’t take it any more and tear into the boxes.
There’s a laptop. New. Beautiful. Probably costs more than six months of my rent. Wireless peripherals. Ergonomic chair already put together. A welcome packet. Custom-engraved nameplate with my name in gold letters.
Ivy.
Data Ethics Specialist.
Everview Systems Internal Division.
“What the fuck is data ethics?” I whisper.
I tear through the papers. There’s no real explanation. No email from HR. No escalation confirmation. Just a half-page note congratulating me on an “internal lateral promotion as part of an initiative to reward high performers in critical backend operations.”
My hands shake.
Not with excitement.
With suspicion.
I work at home. Why the fuck do I need a nameplate? I don’t even have a real desk. Just a table that I repurposed. Not only that, but the paperwork all has my last name on it…but not the nameplate.
What the shit is going on?
This isn’t how corporations work. I’ve seen people promoted before. It’s a mess of meetings and signed NDAs and training modules.
This? This feels like a bribe.
Or a setup.
Or some kind of...trap.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the laptop, imagining that it’s staring back at me until I finally give in and plug everything in, powering it up.
The new laptop hums like it knows something I don’t, still hours later.
I haven’t even logged into it yet. It just sits there, sleek and sinister on the desk, while I pace the room like a caged animal.
I’m not prone to dramatics. I don’t spiral easily.
But this?
This feels like someone replaced the floorboards under my life while I was sleeping and then called me crazy for suggesting that there’s something different.
I drag my old chair over and fire up my piece-of-shit work laptop, still covered in the little scuffs and coffee smudges that feel like mine. Familiar. Safe.
Just need to see something. Anything. Something to prove I’m imagining it. That there’s some sort of cosmic joke being played on me.
I open my payroll portal.
And stop breathing.
There’s a bonus listed. Not huge, but enough to matter. A number that doesn’t belong in my account. No explanation, no approval chain, just a line item tagged “Performance Reallocation Incentive.”
I check my shift history just to make sure that I didn’t screw up.
I didn’t.
Next, I check my schedule.
My hours have been cleaned up. Reduced. Tidier. My least favorite ticket types are gone from the queue entirely.
My mouth goes dry.
They’re either buttering me up before they fire me… or someone very high up suddenly decided I matter.
Neither is comforting.
I stare at the raise. Completely separate from the bonus that I already have.
It’s the kind of money that makes you wonder if someone accidentally transferred you to the wrong system. Or the kind that comes with strings attached. Strings that tighten when you least expect it and make you vomit after you eat.
I know how this works.
People like me don’t just get things.
We survive for them. Claw and grasp for them. Bleed for them.
Hurt for them.
Until there’s nothing left.
And I’m supposed to believe it’s all just... here?
My fingers twitch toward the new machine again, but I stop myself. If I touch it—if I log in—it becomes real. Official. Permanent.
Instead, I push up from the chair and head to the tiny kitchen. Open the cabinets. Close them again. I’m not hungry.
I’m not anything but wired and wary.
I know how to code my way out of a locked database. I know how to rewire a corrupted OS. I know how to ghost myself off the grid in under thirty minutes.
But I don’t know what to do with a gift.
Especially one I didn’t ask for.
I can’t sit here right now.
It’s stupid, probably.
A luxury I can’t afford.
But I grab my coat anyway and head down the block to the little coffee shop tucked between a pawn shop and a laundromat that still runs on quarters. It smells like burnt espresso and cinnamon sugar, and sometimes—just for a second—it feels like another life.
The kind of life where I didn’t grow up flinching at slammed doors. Where I didn’t have to brace myself for kindness like it might explode in my hands.
The kind of life where I could accept that the company I work for would recognize the work that I’m putting in and reward me for it.
The line’s short, thank god. I order something indulgent. Extra caramel, real milk, too much foam, and wait at the counter while my stomach clenches at the price but I pay it anyway.
I’m still staring at the menu board, wondering how long this "promotion" will last, when I feel it.
That prickle.
Like I’m being watched.
Not in the usual way. Not catcallers or creeps asking for a good time. Those I brush off like lint on my shoulder
This is different. Slower. Smarter.
I glance sideways, the breath in my lungs held in case I need to make a break for it, and that’s when I see him.
Seated at a corner table near the window, alone. Reading nothing. Drinking nothing. Just… watching.
Me?
Maybe.
He doesn’t look away when I meet his gaze.
His stormy gray eyes are locked on mine like we’re the only two people in the world. Like none of the noise around us gets through the filter of his attention enough to tear him away from this silent battle of the wills.
And I can’t look away either.
He’s the kind of beautiful that makes my brain scream Danger. Dark suit. Sharp jaw. Clean lines. Not flashy, but expensive. Old money dressed like it doesn’t care what you think.
His eyes are pale. Ice over granite. And there’s something in them I can’t read. Stillness. Control. Like he doesn’t need the world to bend to him because it already does.
My heart stutters once, hard, and I hate that it does.
The barista calls my name, snapping me out of whatever spell just slithered over my spine. I grab the cup without thinking, fingers too tight on the lid.
When I glance back toward the window, he’s still watching.
Not smirking. Not checking me out.
Just watching.
And for some reason, that’s worse.
I turn and walk out fast, head down, trying to tell myself it’s nothing. Just some guy who looks like he owns the building and expects the world to kneel when he blinks. The kind who thinks everyone wants him.
Let him stare.
He’s not my problem.
Still, I glance back once over my shoulder. I lie to myself and justify it as just checking.
He’s gone. Which is good. Again, I’m lying to myself.
No one like him could ever like someone like me. Not only are we from different sides of the tracks, but we’re practically from two separate planets with the distance between our social classes.
I take the long way home.
Mostly to walk off the ghost of that man’s stare. The memory of how still he was. Like he already owned the space around me and didn’t need to say a word to prove it.
God. I hate men like that.
But the worst part about the whole thing is that a bigger part of me than I’ll ever acknowledge actually kind of liked that feeling.
I sip my overpriced coffee as the streets get quieter. Shadows stretch longer out here. I pass a burned-out building, a broken lamppost, a bodega with its gate halfway down.
I’m halfway through the block when I hear the footsteps behind me.
Too quick. Too close.
I don’t turn around.
Not yet.
Just slide one hand into my coat pocket and curl my fingers around the mini canister of pepper spray I never leave home without.
The footsteps speed up.
I stop walking.
So does he.
“Cute coat,” a voice says from behind me. Low. Breathless. “Bet it’d look better on the ground.”
I turn slowly, just enough to glance back. The tweaker standing three feet away is wiry, twitchy, holding something small and metallic I don’t bother identifying. Knife. Screwdriver. Doesn’t matter. It’s the weapon he’ll use to get me down and hurt me.
“Wallet. Phone,” he says. “And whatever else you got.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You sure about that?”
He sneers. “You gonna scream?”
I shake my head. “I’m gonna break your kneecap.”
He lunges.
I sidestep, fast, just like my old self-defense teacher drilled into me. The one that gave free lessons at the community center. Back when I was a teenager who needed those lessons, not just wanted them. He swipes at my arm. Grazes my sleeve.