Service Was Mediocre: Reviewing My Billionaire Lover

The heat outside the Hunter Tower was oppressive. It was the kind of dry, smoggy heat that made your skin feel tight. Avery stepped out of the revolving doors, shielding her eyes with her hand. The doorman, a man named Henry who had once called her a cab when she was drunk and crying, looked at her now with a mixture of pity and judgment. He didn't move to open a car door. He didn't whistle for a taxi. Avery didn't care. She walked past him to the curb and raised her hand. A yellow cab, battered and smelling of old pine air freshener, screeched to a halt. She slid into the backseat. "West Hollywood. The Sierra Towers." She pulled her phone out of her clutch. The screen was cracked-another souvenir from last night. It was blowing up. Thirty missed calls from "Brother Ernest." Fifty text messages from numbers she didn't recognize. She opened the news app. The headline was right there at the top, bold and condemning: Hall Family Disgrace: Did Avery Leak Cheslie's Private Photos? Avery let out a short, bitter laugh. Of course. The timeline was moving faster than she remembered. Cheslie Griffin, the family's perfect adopted angel, had leaked her own photos to garner sympathy and had framed Avery to cover her tracks. It was efficient. It was brutal. The cab driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. His eyes widened as he recognized her. Avery pulled the hood of her jacket up. She shrank into the seat, watching the palm trees blur past. The cab pulled up to the Sierra Towers. It was a fortress of glass and steel, a place where people paid a premium to never have to interact with the outside world. "That'll be forty-five," the driver said. Avery pulled out her black American Express card. It was the card tied to her trust fund. She swiped it through the reader mounted on the partition. Beep. "Declined," the machine read in red letters. Avery felt a cold drop in her stomach. She swiped it again. Beep. Declined. "Miss, I don't have all day," the driver said, his patience thinning. "One second," Avery said. Her voice was calm, but her pulse was racing. Ernest hadn't just cut her off. He had frozen her. She dug into her wallet. She had given Cullen three hundred dollars. She had exactly fifty dollars left in her wallet. She handed the cash to the driver. "Keep the change," she said, though there wasn't much change to keep. She walked into the lobby. The air conditioning hit her sweat-dampened skin, making her shiver. The concierge, a man who usually greeted her with a smile and a complimentary water, stood behind the marble desk with his arms crossed. "Ms. Hall," he said. His tone was stiff. "Your key fob has been deactivated. Per the owner's request." "The owner is my brother," Avery said. "I live here." "Not anymore," the concierge said. He slid a paper across the desk. It was a legal notice. Eviction. Effective immediately. "Mr. Hall has arranged for movers. They are almost done." Avery stared at the paper. The letters swam before her eyes. "I need to get my things." "You have thirty minutes," the concierge said. He signaled to a security guard. "Escort her." The elevator ride up was silent. The guard stood too close, his presence a physical reminder of her new status. Threat. Trespasser. Her apartment door was open. Inside, boxes were stacked high. Strangers were touching her things. A man was wrapping her crystal vase in bubble wrap. Avery ignored them. She walked straight to the bedroom. She ignored the closet full of couture gowns she would never wear again. She went to the wall safe behind the painting. She punched in the code. 1-9-9-8. Her birth year. The light turned green. She pulled the handle. Inside was her passport, a stack of cash-emergency money the original Avery had hidden for drugs-and a small, leather-bound journal. She shoved it all into her oversized tote bag. Her phone rang again. Brother Ernest. She stared at the screen for a second, then answered. "You cut my cards, Ernest? Really?" "You tried to ruin Cheslie," Ernest's voice was ice. It wasn't the voice of a brother. It was the voice of a judge delivering a death sentence. "You are no sister of mine until you apologize publicly. On your knees." "Ask Cheslie who actually took those photos," Avery said. She didn't shout. She just stated it. "Don't you dare," Ernest hissed. "Don't you dare drag her down with you. You're sick, Avery." The line went dead. "Time's up, Ms. Hall," the security guard said from the doorway. He tapped his watch. Avery looked around the room. This had been her home. Now it was just a collection of boxes. She grabbed a single suitcase from the bed, stuffing it with jeans, t-shirts, and comfortable shoes. She walked out. She didn't look back. Standing on the curb outside, with one suitcase and a deactivated credit card, Avery felt the weight of the city pressing down on her. She was homeless. She was bankrupt. She dialed the one number Ernest wouldn't think to block. "Zoe," she said when the line connected. "I'm at the curb. I need you."