The Authenticity Clause

Chapter 1 The Art of Creative Non-Fiction

Leo Hayes was a firm believer that chaos was just creativity in its natural, untamed state.

His apartment was a testament to this philosophy.

Half-finished canvases leaned against walls like tipsy party guests, a constellation of paint splatters decorated the hardwood floors, and three separate coffee mugs, each in a different stage of fossilization, formed a sacred triangle around his laptop.

It was, in his opinion, a perfectly organized ecosystem of inspiration.

His landlord, Mr. Henderson, did not share this artistic vision.

The evidence was stuck to the fridge with a passive-aggressive smiley-face magnet: a notice printed on paper the color of impending doom.

The words PAST DUE were underlined twice in a furious red ink that seemed to personally violate the cheerful vibe of the kitchen.

It had been there for three days, radiating a low-level hum of anxiety that was starting to interfere with Leo’s ability to appreciate the morning light filtering through his paint-smudged windows.

Right, he thought, skillfully ignoring the notice to grab the last dregs of orange juice from the carton. New plan. Become a world-famous artist before the first of the month. Totally doable.

The problem with his plans was that they often involved a level of magical thinking that the universe consistently failed to endorse.

He was a good artist, maybe even a great one on a good day, but the galleries of Starling Grove weren't exactly beating down his door.

His income was less of a steady stream and more of a series of unpredictable droughts punctuated by the occasional flash flood when a commission came through.

Currently, he was deep in drought territory.

His phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating against an empty tube of cadmium yellow. The screen lit up with a picture of his mom, smiling brightly. He loved his mom. He also knew this call would, in some way, involve the phrase "stable career path."

He took a deep breath and swiped to answer. "Hey, Mom. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Leo, darling! I was just calling to see how you are. Are you eating? You sound like you’re not eating."

"I am actively drinking the ghost of an orange," Leo said, tilting the carton back until the last drop hit his tongue. "So, yes. Peak nutrition."

"That’s not what I mean and you know it," she said, her voice warm but edged with the familiar steel of maternal concern. "How’s the… art going?"

The slight pause before ‘art’ was everything. It was a pause filled with love, but also with visions of 401(k)s, dental plans, and a son who didn’t describe his financial situation as "artistically fluid."

"It's great," Leo lied, his eyes drifting back to the red-inked glare from the fridge. "On the verge of a major breakthrough. I’m exploring the transient nature of… geometric shapes. Very in right now."

"That’s wonderful, sweetie. Your cousin, Mark—you remember Mark, from accounting?—he just got another promotion. They gave him a corner office. Can you imagine?"

Leo could, in fact, imagine it. He imagined it was beige. He imagined the art on the walls was chosen by a committee. "Wow. That’s… numerically thrilling for him."

"I just worry, Leo. We just want you to be secure. To have something to fall back on."

"I have a very comfortable couch to fall back on," he quipped. "And several large piles of laundry. The safety net is robust."

The call ended as it always did, with mutual "I love yous" and Leo feeling a familiar hollowness in his chest. His mom’s worry wasn’t an attack; it was a symptom of his own deep-seated fear. The fear that he was, at twenty-six, a charming disappointment. A creative dead-end.

The hollow feeling, combined with the glare of the rent notice, was a powerful motivator.

He slumped into his desk chair, the wheels protesting under his weight, and opened his laptop.

The screen flickered to life, illuminating a half-finished digital painting of a fox in a spacesuit.

He sighed, minimizing the masterpiece, and opened a new tab.

Job Search. Starling Grove.

The results were a graveyard of inspiration.

'Data Entry Specialist.' 'Logistics Coordinator.

' 'Junior Account Manager.' The words themselves seemed gray, devoid of life.

He scrolled for what felt like an eternity, his soul slowly shriveling with each listing that demanded "proficiency in Microsoft Excel" and "a passion for synergy. "

I have a passion for not being evicted, he thought. Does that count?

And then he saw it.

Vance & Sterling Creative. Digital Experience Designer.

The name alone sounded expensive, like a law firm from a TV show where everyone had great hair and betrayed each other in glass-walled offices.

The description was a masterclass in corporate jargon.

It talked about "disrupting paradigms," "crafting bespoke digital narratives," and "leveraging brand synergy in a holistic ecosystem.

" It was complete, utter nonsense. Leo loved it.

He clicked the link. The company’s website was a monument to minimalism.

Stark white backgrounds, sharp black lines, a severe, geometric logo that looked like it would cut you if you touched it.

There wasn't a single stray pixel, not a hint of color beyond the grayscale spectrum.

It was the aesthetic opposite of his entire existence.

He scrolled down to the job requirements.

5+ years experience in UX/UI design and digital strategy.

Expert-level proficiency with the full Adobe Creative Suite.

Demonstrable portfolio of successful, data-driven campaigns.

Leo looked at his own resume, open in another tab.

It listed "Proficient in Adobe Photoshop" and "Designed promotional flyers for The Daily Grind cafe (and got free muffins).

" He had approximately zero years of experience in whatever a "digital strategist" was.

He should have closed the tab. He should have gone back to the sensible, soul-crushing data entry jobs.

But his gaze drifted around his apartment—at the vibrant, beautiful, monetarily-worthless chaos he had built. He thought of his mother’s worried voice, of the condescending smirk of Mr. Henderson, of the terrifyingly low number in his bank account.

What’s the worst that could happen?

It was a dangerous question, the kind that usually preceded a story that ended with, "and that's why I'm no longer allowed in that state."

With a surge of what could only be described as catastrophic optimism, he started typing. This wasn't a lie. This was creative non-fiction. An interpretive dance of his professional history.

"Proficient in Adobe Photoshop" blossomed into "Digital Experience Artisan & Brand Synergist with demonstrated expertise in visual storytelling across the Adobe Creative Suite."

"Designed promotional flyers for The Daily Grind cafe" was reborn as "Orchestrated multi-platform digital engagement campaigns for local businesses, resulting in a quantifiable increase in customer conversion." (The muffins were delicious, which he counted as a successful conversion.)

He invented a freelance career, creating a portfolio of "passion projects" that sounded suspiciously like real campaigns for brands he admired. He sprinkled in words like "ideation," "wireframing," and "agile methodology," which he had just learned from a five-minute YouTube video.

The resume in front of him was a work of art. A beautiful, shimmering, and utterly fraudulent masterpiece. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror and adrenaline. This was either the dumbest or most brilliant thing he had ever done.

He attached the file. He typed out a cover letter so full of confidence and corporate buzzwords that he almost believed it himself. His cursor hovered over the "Submit Application" button. For a full ten seconds, he just stared, his reflection a pale, wide-eyed ghost on the screen.

Then, with a sharp exhale, he clicked.

The screen refreshed. 'Thank you for your application.'

It was done. He leaned back in his chair, a slow, giddy laugh bubbling up from his chest. He wasn’t thinking about the inevitable rejection, or the astronomical odds against him.

He wasn't thinking about the consequences.

For the first time in weeks, the low-level hum of anxiety had been replaced by something else.

It was a wild, terrifying, and utterly reckless spark of hope. And for now, it was enough.