Chapter 2 Penthouse Dreams, Dumpster Realities
One Week Earlier
June 25
Chicago
Laila Malik
S weet little Laila Malik was actually feeling quite spicy. Her palms were damp, and a bead of perspiration clung to her upper lip. She discreetly wiped it away while peering over at the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
“Act cool, be cool. It’s fine—he’s just a guy, a normal guy,” she reminded herself. So what if his skin was a perfect, golden hue, his eyes the color of raw honey, and his hair had that messy, wavy thing going on that made her fingers itch to brush back a stray curl? It made no difference to her. She was married! Repeat after me: she was married. Not dead, mind you—she could look, just not touch.
He glanced at his phone and muttered in Spanish, “Esto es una mierda.”
Her eyes wandered to his lips—yes, definitely could not touch that!
When he caught her staring, she quickly swiveled her gaze to the elevator panel, her heart thumping harder than it should have.
“Hola, I’m Gabriel Santos. I live on the third floor,” he announced, extending his hand for a handshake.
She tentatively accepted, promptly forgetting her ‘no touching’ rule. “Laila Malik. I live in—”
“The penthouse,” he interrupted with a smile. “Everyone knows.”
Of course they did; it was a small community, and the co-op had very little to talk about, except buzz with gossip about its tenants and their flaws.
“On your way to work?” she asked, hoping to sound upbeat and carefree.
“Yes, I’m a professor at Northwestern—Art History.” His voice was lovely: deep, slightly raspy, the kind that made you want to lean in and catch every syllable. As the elevator landed in the lobby, he smiled and tipped an imaginary hat at her—in a charming sort of goodbye.
To a normal person, that would have been the end of the conversation. But Laila felt anything but normal.
For the past month and a half, she had stood next to this man every morning, inhaling the clean scent of his aftershave mingled with the hint of his cologne. She had heard him hum beautiful Spanish melodies under his breath and seen him in various shades of sexy tweed jackets. Yes—tweed was sexy when worn by Gabriel Santos. It made perfect sense that he was an art professor; everything about him radiated creativity. The man exuded art, from the tips of his fingers to the bottoms of his wingtip shoes.
As he strolled out onto the street, Laila struggled against the sudden urge to follow him. Before she knew it, her legs were moving on their own. It was harmless—just a walk in the same direction. It didn’t mean anything!
He was headed toward the Metra station, while her law office was a 20-minute walk in the opposite direction. Fortunately, she had no early morning meetings. Her heart fluttered when she saw Gabriel kneel to hand a few dollars to an elderly, unhoused woman stationed by the heat grates.
Laila rummaged through her bag, hoping to find something similar to offer. All she managed to find was a coupon for the frozen yogurt shop across the street, which she dropped into the woman’s hat, anyway.
“Lady, what the hell is this? I don’t eat no frozen yogurt! This ain’t a trash bin!” the earthy-scented woman bellowed, causing Gabriel to turn around and notice Laila.
She froze, then quickly ducked behind a lamppost. But it was too late—he had already recognized her.
“Hey, Penthouse! What are you doing out here?” he called out.
Oh my god! Had he just given her a nickname? Did that mean they were friends now? Look at the progress that can happen in a relationship, when you follow a man without his consent or knowledge!
“On my way to the Metra station,” the lie slipped easily from her lips.
“Ah, I could use a walking buddy,” he said, waiting for her to catch up. “Oh, and don’t mind Rosie—I’m pretty sure she loves frozen yogurt,” he added with a wink.
Her mind stuttered to a complete halt at the sight of that wink and the slight dimple on his right cheek. “T-t-that’s great,” she stammered. “I love walking!”
“I knew today was going to be a good day. I could feel it in my bones,” he said as they descended the stairs, and she struggled to focus on her steps instead of his face.
“Oh really? And why is that?” she asked.
“I just got the email this morning—I’m officially a tenured professor at Northwestern University,” he replied, his eyes shining with pride.
“That’s an incredible achievement. Congratulations,” she said sincerely. Standing next to him, the dreary, bedraggled Monday morning air transformed into something sparkly.
“And then I met this beautiful lady who accompanied me to the train station. Two incredible things happening back-to-back. Coincidence? I think not,” his arm briefly brushed up against hers as he stood close to the platform, subtly guarding her against the edge. Her arm tingled from the brief contact.
The grating sound of metal on metal signaled that the next train was arriving soon. As the Metra screeched to a halt before them, Gabriel stepped aboard, but something held Laila back.
“Aren’t you coming?” he asked.
“No, my mistake. I, um...left my work bag at home. I’ll catch up with you later,” she called out as the doors closed.
“You got it, Penthouse,” he shouted with a wave.
Her heart pounded. She couldn’t catch her breath. He had finally spoken to her after weeks of waiting. He had called her beautiful. Her? She’d never felt this way before. What was this sensation?
And was it appropriate to bring up at the next couple’s therapy session with her husband?
Present Day
July 4th
Los Angeles
Kat Kar
“Is that a yacht? Is she on a freaking yacht? Talk about retail therapy at its finest,” Kat replayed Laila Malik’s Insta-story.
Christian read over her shoulder, “Ja’maican me crazy!”
Kat shuddered in horror. “Well, the puns are super tacky.”
Christian rolled her eyes. “I mean, she is old. It’s cute that she’s trying. Ooooh, is that her husband?” She let out a low whistle. “That man is a total Zaddy. Oof, he Ja’maican me crazy!”
Kat burst out laughing—but her smile vanished when she clicked on the latest Insta-story: a $1,400 Sabyasachi bucket bag was casually slung over Laila’s shoulder as she strolled along a public (read: urine-infested) beach under harsh, direct sunlight. The bag was going to get ruined!
“Ugh, I’m telling you, Christian. This woman’s life is perfect. She lives in a penthouse. That gold statue in the corner could probably feed us for a year. Last month, she was at a ‘Feed the Kids’ luncheon to help the at-risk youth of Chicago. Only rich people attend luncheons for poor people.”
Kat clicked her acrylic nails impatiently on the cheap Ikea tabletop as Christian plopped down on the bar stool next to her, also scrolling through her phone.
Kat suddenly realized she hated that table—the laminated oak color, and one wobbly leg meant they could never set anything heavy on it. All her books on fashion, art, marketing, and e-commerce were stacked in various corners of the apartment.
Her eyes flicked toward her phone as she stared at the Boca Do Lobo dining table in Laila Malik’s house. The ornate gold finish had her drooling.
She glanced at her little notebook and reviewed the information she had gathered thus far on Laila Malik.
· 34 years old
· Married
· No kids
· University of Chicago alum–studied Criminal Law before switching to Immigration Law
· Board Member of the Illinois Coalition for Immigrant and Refugee Rights
· Plays in the Women’s Volleyball League every Thursday. Her team is (naturally) number one in the division.
Laila Malik seemed a little too put together. How many accomplishments could one woman stack? Who was she trying to impress? It all felt a little desperate if you asked Kat (not that anyone was asking her).
Sure, Laila was smart, pretty, and had a career that screamed ‘success,’ but Kat couldn’t help noticing her left eyebrow looked a little crooked, and the latest Ahluwalia blouse? Not doing her any favors—way too harsh for her complexion.
Kat’s phone vibrated, jolting her out of her thoughts—@JustJanvi had just posted on YouTube Shorts, “Guess who got a sneak peek at the latest Huda Beauty Flush Blush collection? Live review today. Tune in at 7pm PST—can’t miss!”
Kat grunted and quickly typed the time into her digital calendar. She would be glued to her phone, taking copious notes on how Janvi was presenting the latest products: the lighting, the slang, the effortless effort that went into every ‘soft launch’ campaign.
She analyzed the backdrop of Janvi’s 10-second video. Her heart fluttered with dejection as she realized Janvi was filming from Republique Café Bakery—a lush, Parisian-inspired café with oak tables and gilded details in the Miracle Mile neighborhood.
Kat had once walked in just to use the restroom but couldn’t afford anything on the menu. Instead, she had sniffed the baked goods and zipped back outside before anyone noticed. It was clear she would need a more upscale location for her next YouTube Short.
Christian jerked upright and knocked over the water bottle in front of her. “Kat—Khatira Rudra Kar—what have you done?” Christian gasped.
Kat sat up straight. Christian never used her middle name unless something massive had gone wrong.
“You used my profile to endorse this charlatan of a minister—and you didn’t think I’d find out,” Christian said, shoving her phone in Kat’s face and pointing to the atrocity.
Kat felt her breathing get shallow as she struggled to remember what on earth Christian was talking about. Trying to buy some time, she opened her eyes wide and blinked slowly. “Hmmm....”
“Don’t ‘hmm’ me,” Christian snapped. “You know I don’t mess with this man—after everything he has done to me, to my family, to my entire clan. You know, if we were in Haiti right now, I’d tie you up with the chickens and hang you upside down.” Her Haitian accent grew more pronounced with anger.
Kat backed away from the heat-laced aura radiating from Christian. “I—I, uh, don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I am talking about Mr. Joseph Chery—” Christian inhaled dramatically, her bosom quivering with rage.
“Oh, you mean your ex-boyfriend Joe—”
“Bite your tongue—I never said he was my boyfriend,” Christian snapped, crossing her arms and clearly affronted by the absurdity of the statement.
Kat surreptitiously scanned the kitchenette area for anything she could grab to defend herself.
“Haven’t you gone to Haiti every summer since you were twelve and worked at his father’s ministry? I mean, the only reason you aren’t there this year is because—”
“It’s because he is a fork-tongued, twisted snake of a man,” Christian hissed, her eyes glowing in a way that made Kat’s arm hair stand on end.
Kat swallowed uncomfortably, her mouth suddenly very dry. “Christian, I’m still not sure what I did—”
“You endorsed his Charity Campaign, which stated I would match every contribution dollar for dollar! Proceeds would go to the New Life Children she had postponed her semester at USC, and all her Reddit posts had taken on an angry, slightly manic anti-men quality.
Just yesterday, she heard Christian reciting this Bible verse:
Jeremiah 10:14
“Every man is stupid, devoid of knowledge;
Every goldsmith is put to shame by his idols;
For his molten images are deceitful,
And there is no breath in them.”
Kat glanced from Christian’s phone, which displayed the fundraiser tally, to her own phone showcasing Laila’s Boca Do Lobo 14-seat Gold Dining Table, retailing for $84K. An idea percolated in her head and began gathering steam.
“You know who has ten grand lying around in spare change and probably wouldn’t even miss it?” Kat blurted out.
Christian’s face scrunched in confusion before registering Kat’s implication. “No-no, that is a very bad idea, Kat. I can’t even believe I have to say this—but we can’t just take this woman’s things. That’s wrong, Kat!”
“What if we borrowed it?” Kat said hurriedly. “What if we just took it and then paid her back anonymously? Think of it as a loan so that you don’t get embarrassed by Joseph and the entire nation of Haiti, not to mention getting canceled by your 226K followers.”
“I’ll get two jobs, Kat. I dunna care. My parents were farmers in Haiti before they took over the Ministry of La Chapelle. I’m not compromising my morals and integrity—and by the way, you’re on the hook for this as well. Just because it’s got my name on it doesn’t mean you won’t be chipping in some of those charity funds, missy!”
“Are we really going to come up with $10K in 30 days? If that were possible, wouldn’t we have done it already? Look, I’m in hot water too. My court date is on August 15th. I need a new, semi-decent lawyer by then. I think if you and I did this together, we’d be able to solve both our problems.”
“You’re da one who created my problems, Kat!” Christian hollered.
“I feel like you’re really getting hung up on unnecessary details here,” Kat said, sidestepping the uncalled-for negativity. “Maybe after all is said and done, we could try to convince Laila it’s some kind of tax write-off. We could leave a nice note explaining ourselves and that we’ll be in touch.”
Christian looked at Kat as if she had lost her mind. Pausing, she leaned back against the beanbag and let out a slow exhale. “You want to go to this woman’s house while she’s on vacation in Jamaica, rob her of all her finest possessions, and then leave her an apology note?”
“I just wanted to be polite about it,” Kat huffed. She walked to the mini fridge and pulled out a can of Poppi soda.
A knock at the door thankfully interrupted the awkward silence. Kat opened it, and there, standing on the threshold, was Mrs. Templeton, flanked by her son, Cory.
Mrs. Templeton was already wringing her hands in agitation. “Oh, hello, dear.”
Oh shit , Kat thought. Not the son . “Hi, Mrs. Templeton and Cory,” she said, her voice a bit too loud, her smile stretched a little too wide. “Did you all get the vegan cookie basket we sent you last week?”
Mrs. Templeton nodded, swallowing nervously. “Yes, dear, I did. They were lovely. I’ve never had cranberry and lentil cookies before—it was... a unique flavor combination.”
Christian, never one to miss a cue, strolled over to the front door, fluttering her lashes in mock sweetness. “And what about the crocheted coasters we got you last month? Are your teacups feeling coddled?”
“Oh yes, the teacups have never been more pampered. It’s just—well, you both know you’re about two thousand dollars behind on rent. And, frankly, it’s... it’s getting to be too much.” Mrs. Templeton faltered, looking down at her hands.
Cory stepped in with a sigh, his tone flat but decisive. “Enough, ladies. My mom is done covering for you.”
Kat and Christian exchanged a glance, feigning ignorance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kat asked, the words coming out a little too quickly, as both of them struggled to act clueless.
“If you don’t have your rent money by August 1st,” Cory continued, his voice hardening, “I’ll personally toss your stuff out the window. My mother’s been way too accommodating—”
“We can pay you. We have the money,” Kat blurted out wildly, the desperation creeping into her voice. “I just got a large sponsorship. We’ll have the two thousand dollars in the next week, and we’ll even add another thousand for the inconvenience we’ve caused you. An apology tax, if you will.”
Cory rolled his eyes. “I already have two tenants lined up who can pay on time. Consider this your notice to pack your shit and go.”
Christian shot Kat a skeptical look before saying, “It’s true. We’ve got the money. You don’t have to evict us. Give us until August 1st, at least.”
“Uh-huh,” he said flatly. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back on August 1st to collect the overdue rent and that thousand-dollar inconvenience fee. My mother’s been way too generous with you gals.”
“Gals?” Christian mouthed in disbelief, her face scrunching in distaste.
Mrs. Templeton patted Cory’s arm lightly, her voice soft but firm. “Well, that’s all, girls. Happy 4th of July. Hope you take some time to enjoy yourselves.” With that, she and Cory turned and walked back down the stairs, their footsteps echoing through the empty hallway.
Kat and Christian stood in the doorway, the lies they couldn’t take back hanging in the air like a cold fog. Neither spoke, but the silence between them pulsed with unspoken urgency. They were screwed if they didn’t get their shit together— and fast .
Christian walked back into the living room and sat cross-legged on the bean bag. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Kat tiptoed into the living room. “Christian—” she began again.
“No, Kat! We can’t steal from some woman you looked up on Instagram. It’s way too risky,” Christian said, shaking her head, a slight tremor in her voice.
Kat leaned against the doorway, folding her arms across her chest, softening her tone. “But it’s not risky, Christian. That’s the best part. Laila and her husband are in Jamaica right now—she just posted that they’re spending a week in paradise. So, we have the perfect set-up: a minimum of four days to get in, grab a few things, and get out.”
Christian’s eyes narrowed, but Kat could see the hesitation in them.
Taking a deep breath, Kat went in for the kill. “Do you really want to move back in with your parents and your spacey Aunt Clarise, who does voodoo chants over you in the middle of the night?”
Christian shuddered at the memory. “I don’t know, Kat... this still feels wrong.”
Kat sensed the chink in Christian’s armor. “It’ll be super surgical.” She pulled the key card from Laila’s wallet. “I already have the key to her penthouse. This isn’t going to be some crazy scheme—we have time to think things through. We go in, take a few strategic items we’ve spotted on her social media, and we can even make a checklist.” Kat knew Christian was obsessed with checklists. “We can tick each item off, knowing its exact worth. Chances are, she won’t even miss them.”
Christian closed her eyes, hugged herself, and rocked back and forth slightly on her heels. Kat held her breath, waiting in anticipation.
After a long inhale and exhale, Christian began to hum. Kat twitched, unsure what to say or do.
Then, with her eyes closed, Christian started singing, “We fall down, we lay our crowns, at the feet of Jesus, the greatness of mercy and love, at the feet of Jesus.”
Finally, Christian opened her eyes with a deep sigh. “Alright, the Lord has shown me the way.”
Kat secretly crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping the Lord was on her side with this one.
Christian stared hard at Kat for several seconds. Then she cleared her throat and admitted, “It’s not a bad plan.”
Kat squealed and lunged in for a quick hug before abruptly pulling back, running a hand through her hair. “Another thing—”
Christian gave her a sidelong glance. “There’s more?”
Kat pulled up Laila’s profile picture on her phone and held it next to her face. “Do you think if I cut my hair, I could pass for her? We’re both brown. I think she’s Pakistani, and I’m Bengali. We’re practically cousins.”
Christian’s eyes flicked between the phone and Kat’s face. She exhaled through her nose, taking a moment before answering. “You’re not wrong,” she said slowly. “If they had security guards, it would make getting into her place easier. Some oversized glasses, and you’d be a shoo-in.”
Kat bounced on the balls of her feet. “I’ll go get the scissors. Makeover transitions get so many views on TikTok.”
Christian pinched the bridge of her nose. “Before you do that, I want to be clear that I’m doing this under one condition. And one condition only.” She leveled a pointed look at Kat. “We only take what we need, and we do pay her back.”
“Every penny,” Kat repeated, not meaning a word of it.