Million Dollar Devil

1.

It feels like I've been scrolling for hours, endlessly scanning job listings I'm not qualified for. Administrative this, executive that. Every description sounds like it was written for someone taller, sharper, with a LinkedIn bio full of words like synergy and visionary. People who say things like "circle back" unironically and actually mean it.

Another rejection email hits my inbox with a cheery little ping.

The subject line reads: Thank you for your interest.

I don't even have to open it. I already know it's going to be polite and just impersonal enough to make me question whether my resume was even skimmed by a human being.

I close my laptop and let my head fall back against the couch. The fake leather sticks to the back of my thighs, making that quiet peeling sound that always feels vaguely humiliating. A sigh crawls up from somewhere deep in my chest and drags the rest of me with it. This is what rock bottom sounds like: a half-yawn, half-scream into an empty living room that smells faintly like microwaved coffee and despair.

My resume isn't terrible. It's just... uninspiring. A patchwork of front desk jobs, retail stints, and three months as a temp at a medical supply company where I accidentally mailed a bedpan to the wrong address. Twice. My references probably sound like a chorus of people politely saying, she tried her best.

But I'm not trying to change the world. I just want a job with benefits, a manager who doesn't call me sweetheart, and enough of a paycheck to get out of this shoebox apartment where the walls flake when it rains and the AC unit sounds like it's slowly dying.

Beep. Beep.

My phone chirps with a calendar alert. Shift reminder.

Of course. Perfect timing, as always. I shut my laptop with a sigh, shelving my personal pity party for another day, which is a shame, really, because I had my tiny violin ready and everything.

I swipe on mascara, jam my platform heels into a tote.

The thump of bass reaches me before I even park. The kind that rattles the bones in your chest and lingers in your ribcage long after the song changes. I flip down the visor mirror to check my reflection. My eyeliner is smudged but salvageable, lips pale, and eyes tired in a way that concealer can't fix.

I look tired. I am tired.

"Hey, Lily," Jack says, holding the back door open with one tattooed arm. His other hand clutches a thermos that definitely isn't filled with coffee.

"Evening, Jack," I smile, stepping past him into the heavy heat of the club. His cologne, something sharp and minty, clings to the doorway like a warning.

Inside, I'm overwhelmed with familiar scents: cigarettes, stale beer, and too much perfume.

"Your turn," Kayla calls from across the dressing room, already peeling off her lashes. Her cheeks dusted with enough blush to qualify as war paint.

"Blonde in the blue shirt's handsy," she adds, slipping on sneakers. "You've been warned."

"Great," I mutter. "Can't wait to meet him."

She tosses me a wink and disappears out the door, leaving behind a cloud of glitter and the faint sound of gum snapping.

On the rack, there's an outfit waiting for me. If you can call six inches of spandex and a glitter bra an outfit. A post-it note is slapped across the hanger. Rose.

I hold it up against myself, deadpan in the mirror. "So elegant," I say to no one. "Truly timeless."

Still, I change.