2. Sasha
2
SASHA
New York is magical in the way it sucks the soul out of you while simultaneously draining your bank account. Everyone comes here with big dreams—becoming the next Broadway star, launching the next billion-dollar startup, getting discovered at some artsy dive bar in Brooklyn.
I, however, moved here for a “great career opportunity” that turned out to be a glorified paper-pushing nightmare. By day, I work at Zaitsev Industries, a massive corporate conglomerate that mostly deals with something finance-y I don’t fully understand, because they only let me do the most soul-crushing administrative work imaginable.
My official job title is Junior Research Analyst. Which, in theory, sounds respectable. Professional. Like I do actual research and provide actual analysis.
In reality?
I make PowerPoint slides.
I organize spreadsheets.
I fetch coffee for managers who don’t even remember my name.
And for this incredible privilege, I am paid exactly enough to afford half a shoebox in Brooklyn, which I share with a girl named Melanie—who, for the record, does not speak to me.
Not in a hateful roommate tension way, either.
She just does not acknowledge my existence.
The first time I introduced myself, she gave me a single nod and disappeared into her room. A week later, I came home to find her, AirPods in, eating dry cereal out of the box, watching a reality show on her laptop with the volume maxed out.
I said hi.
She did not respond.
At this point, I’m sixty percent sure she’s running a social experiment to see how long we can cohabitate without speaking.
The apartment itself is about the size of a walk-in closet, which means I get to live in constant awareness of her presence without actually interacting with her.
And for this luxurious experience, I shell out $1,800 a month for my half of the rent.
I drop my bag on my desk—a tiny, sad cubicle wedged between the supply closet and the always broken printer—and boot up my computer. My inbox is already overflowing with emails—requests for reports, data entry tasks, an urgent “Can you format this spreadsheet?” from a manager I’ve only met once.
There’s no creativity in this job. No challenge. No purpose.
Just staring at numbers and pretending I care.
I sigh, sip my lukewarm bodega coffee, and open the first spreadsheet of the day.
Ryan slides into the cubicle next to mine. “You look dead inside,” he says cheerfully.
I gesture at my screen. “Because I am.”
Ryan grins. “Brittany’s party should help.”
I roll my eyes. “Right. A party hosted by someone who definitely doesn’t want me there. Sounds uplifting.”
“She invited you, didn’t she?”
I level him with a look. “Did she, Ryan? Did she really?”
He smirks but doesn’t argue.
I exhale, glancing at my inbox. More emails. More mind-numbing tasks.
I deserve better than this. I know that.
But in a city like this? I’m lucky to even have a job.
* * *
Ryan texts me just as I step out of the shower.
Ryan: Leaving in 20. Need a ride?
I stare at the message for a second, my wet hair dripping onto my towel.
Normally, I’d say no.
But tonight? Tonight, I need to make an effort.
I need people to like me.
And if Brittany Donovan is the way in, then so be it.
I type back a quick Yes, thanks! before tossing my phone onto my bed and rummaging through my very uninspiring closet.
The problem with being chronically broke in New York City is that your wardrobe slowly turns into a collection of “things that can be worn to work” and “things that will keep me from freezing to death”—with very little overlap for “things that will impress my coworkers at a party.”
I settle on a black dress that’s just short enough to look like I have a social life, and pair it with heels I already know are going to murder my feet. I run a brush through my hair, which only slightly cooperates, swipe on some mascara, and?—
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Mom.
I hesitate, then answer, balancing the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I dab concealer under my eyes. “Hey, Mom.”
“Sweetheart,” she sighs, the exhaustion in her voice unmistakable. “How’s work?”
“It’s fine,” I say, because she doesn’t need to hear how miserable I am. “Busy.”
“Well, that’s good,” she says, the forced brightness in her tone so familiar it makes my chest ache. “Busy means job security.”
Busy means survival.
I swallow. “How’s everything at home?”
She hesitates.
And there it is. The silence that says don’t ask .
“They’re good,” she says eventually, which means they’re manageable. “Your brother’s still working at the garage. Your dad…” She trails off, and I don’t need her to finish the sentence.
My dad is an alcoholic.
A good man, once. Before the gambling, before the drinking, before he squandered away everything we had and left my mom to pick up the pieces. Before I had to leave home and make it on my own because there was nothing left for me there.
I press my lips together, adjusting my grip on the phone. “I can send money if you need?—”
“No,” she cuts me off gently. “You need it more than we do.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, because we both know that’s not true.
But I let her believe it.
Because I have to survive New York at any cost.
Even if it means putting on a pretty dress, pretending everything is fine, and going to a party with people who don’t really want me there.
“I gotta go,” I say, glancing at the time. “I’ll call you later?”
“Of course.” She pauses. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”
The words wrap around my ribs, tightening something deep in my chest. I hang up before I let it settle too much, toss my phone onto the bed, and exhale.
Then I glance at myself in the mirror.
Dark brown hair, still damp and curling at the ends.
A slightly too serious face for my age, because life has made it that way.
Brown eyes—wide, expressive, and impossible to hide behind.
I brush my fingers over my collarbone, staring at my reflection. I don’t look like someone who belongs at Brittany Donovan’s party. But I have to try.
Because this is New York. And if I don’t find a way to belong, this city will eat me alive.
The car ride to Brittany’s place is surprisingly chill.
Ryan has some kind of “chill but also upbeat” playlist going, and for once, I don’t feel like I’m being suffocated by my own thoughts.
“You nervous?” he asks, glancing at me as he pulls onto Brittany’s block.
“Nervous? No. Bracing myself? Yes.”
Ryan smirks. “Brittany’s not that bad.”
I don’t respond, because the jury’s still out on that.
Instead, I focus on the house.
Brittany lives in a townhouse on the Upper West Side. Not one of those stupidly expensive ones, but still far too nice for a mid-level corporate employee. Which means either she has a trust fund or she’s got a side hustle that pays in stacks.
Either way, the place is packed.
Music thumps from inside, and when Ryan pulls up, I see people out on the small terrace, laughing, drinking, fully thriving in their young professional glory.
I swallow, suddenly feeling like I might be out of my depth.
Ryan parks and turns to me. “You good?”
I nod, pasting on a semi-confident expression. “Let’s do this.”
The second we step inside, it’s warm, loud, and buzzing with energy.
Brittany’s place is pristine but stylish—all modern furniture, sleek countertops, and just enough expensive-looking decor to let people know she has money.
Music pulses low in the background, the kind of trendy playlist curated for maximum aesthetic effect. There’s a mix of our coworkers, people I don’t recognize, and at least one guy who looks like he wandered in from the street and is just here for the free drinks.
Ryan is immediately greeted with shouts and back claps, making it obvious that people actually like him here.
Brittany, however, is less enthusiastic about our arrival.
She’s standing in a small circle, wine glass in hand, laughing at something someone said when her gaze lands on us.
“Ryan! You made it!” She wraps her arms around him, lingering a little longer than necessary.
Ryan hugs her back, oblivious.
I stand there, momentarily forgotten, wondering if I should just go find a drink and blend into a wall.
But then Brittany pulls back, giving me an almost-believable smile. “And you,” she says, tilting her head. “So glad you could make it.”
She doesn’t sound glad.
I return the energy, plastering on a bright, fake smile. “Thanks for the invite.”
She eyes me for half a second too long, then turns back to the group like I don’t exist.
Nice.
For the first twenty minutes, I hover at the edges, nursing a barely cold drink, making awkward small talk with people whose names I forget immediately.
But then something unexpected happens.
I start actually…having fun.
Turns out, once they’re out of the office and slightly drunk, my coworkers are not as bad as I thought.
I meet Tara, who works in marketing and is way too cool for corporate life, but she’s “in it for the free coffee and chaos.”
There’s James, a guy from IT, who immediately tells me he hates his job and is only staying because he’s “one blown motherboard away from a complete breakdown.”
And then there’s Ava, who works in HR and says things like, “I literally don’t care about policy, I just pretend I do so they keep paying me.”
Within an hour, I’ve had several actual human conversations and I have three new numbers in my phone. Maybe this whole “socializing” thing isn’t so bad.
The game starts off harmless enough.
Some embarrassing truths, some predictable dares—drink something gross, text your ex, show your last photo on your phone.
Nothing too traumatizing.
Brittany leans back against the couch, twirling her wine glass lazily, her voice just loud enough to command attention. “You know, it’s funny,” she says, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against the rim. “I probably know half the people in this company. Like, personally.”
A couple of people nod along, because of course she does.
Brittany knows everyone.
She’s the type who remembers birthdays, drops casual inside jokes with the executives, and always seems to be at the right parties with the right people.
“Oh, yeah,” she continues, grinning like she’s just remembered something amusing. “My uncle actually works with the board. So, you know, it just kind of runs in the family.”
Ryan makes a noncommittal noise, swirling his drink. James rolls his eyes.
I sip my drink, tilting my head slightly. “That makes sense.”
Brittany’s smile falters for just a second. Next to me, James snickers.
I am mortified. I can’t believe I said that out loud.
A few rounds later, the bottle spins toward me, and I feel every pair of eyes turn my way.
Brittany smirks. “Sasha,” she purrs. “Truth or dare?”
I hesitate for exactly one second.
Then—because I am a fool who makes bad decisions for no reason—I lift my chin slightly and say, “Dare.”
A few people cheer.
Ryan mutters, “Oh boy.”
Brittany’s smirk grows.
She leans forward, eyes gleaming with mischief, her wine glass balanced between her fingers. “All right,” she purrs, dragging out the syllables just enough to make my stomach twist. “I dare you to…”
She pauses dramatically, eyes flicking around the circle.
Then she grins. “…send a dirty text to a random number.”
The group erupts in laughter and groans. Someone whistles. James chokes on his drink.
“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’re backing out?” Brittany tilts her head.
I exhale sharply, already regretting every life choice that has led me to this moment. “Fine. Whatever.”
Brittany’s smirk widens, and she reaches for my phone. “Let me pick the number.”
I instinctively clutch it closer. “Uh, I can pick my own random number, thanks.”
“Oh, don’t be boring.” She rolls her eyes. “That’s no fun.”
Before I can argue, she snatches the phone out of my hand with a laugh, her fingers moving way too fast across the screen.
“Brittany—”
She holds up a finger. “Shhh, let me work.”
I stare in horror as she taps out a completely random number, then glances at me slyly.
“Now, let’s see…” She hums, pretending to think.
I reach for my phone, but she dodges easily, grinning like she’s won the lottery.
“Don’t worry, I won’t go too crazy,” she fake reassures me, her thumb moving across the screen. Then, before I can stop her?—
She presses send.
My stomach drops.
I yank the phone back, scrambling to see what she wrote.
“I can’t stop thinking about you. About your hands on me. What would you do if you had me all to yourself?”
I almost drop the phone.
“Oh my GOD.” My voice comes out slightly strangled.
The group howls with laughter.
James claps. Tara wipes a fake tear. Someone mutters, “Iconic.”
Meanwhile, I am actively passing away.
Ryan, barely holding back a grin, leans in. “So, uh…who did she send that to?”
I stare at the number, my stomach twisting.
I have no idea.