Three days of rejection emails have blurred together into one long nightmare. My laptop screen shows seventeen new messages, all variations of the same theme: Thanks but no thanks. Role filled. Going in a different direction.
I'm learning the polite language of professional destruction.
The pounding on my door starts at exactly 9 AM. Not the tentative knock of a neighbor or the rhythmic tapping of a delivery person. This is the kind of pounding that means business.
"Mr. Virelli!" A male voice, authoritative. "Building management!"
I shuffle to the door in yesterday's clothes. Through the peephole, I see three men in suits. One holds an official-looking folder. Two others stand behind him like bookends.
"What's this about?" I ask through the door.
"Seven-day notice to vacate the premises. Please open the door so we can serve you properly."
My blood turns to ice water. "I'm only two months behind on rent. Mrs. Patterson said—"
"Mrs. Patterson no longer manages this property. Please open the door."
Two months behind isn't great, but it's not unusual in this building. Half the tenants are struggling actors or artists living paycheck to paycheck. Mrs. Patterson always worked with us.
I unlock the door but leave the chain attached. Through the gap, I can see the lead man more clearly. Expensive suit. Tablet in his hand. This isn't some local property manager.
"Mr. Theodore Virelli?"
"Yeah."
He slides papers through the door gap. "Official notice of lease termination. You have seven days to vacate."
"Wait, I can catch up on the rent. I have most of it—"
"This isn't about back rent, Mr. Virelli. The building has been sold. New management company has implemented a zero-tolerance policy regarding delinquent accounts."
The papers feel heavy in my hands. Official letterhead. Legal language that might as well be written in ancient Greek.
"Sold? When?"
"Sale finalized last Friday. New owners conducted a full tenant review. Several leases are being terminated."
Last Friday. Three days after I slept with Celeste. The timing makes my stomach clench.
"What's the name of the new management company?"
The man checks his tablet. "Carradine Property Holdings. They specialize in portfolio optimization."
The world tilts sideways. I have to grip the doorframe to keep from falling.
Carradine.
"Are you alright, Mr. Virelli?"
"Fine." The word comes out like a croak. "Just... surprised."
"You have until next Tuesday to remove all personal belongings. Any items left behind will be disposed of according to city ordinance."
They turn and walk away, their footsteps echoing in the hallway like a funeral march.
I close the door and slide down against it until I'm sitting on my kitchen floor. The papers scatter around me like confetti at the world's worst party.
He bought my building. Valentinius fucking bought my building just to kick me out.
My phone buzzes. Text from Lily: Theodore, the tuition thing is getting urgent. Registration closes Friday.
I stare at the message until the letters blur. She needs three thousand dollars. I have maybe eight hundred in checking, and that has to last until... until what? Until I find work that doesn't exist? Until my blacklisted career magically resurrects itself?
I call my bank. Check my balance. $847.23. Rent was supposed to be $1,200. Even if I could pay it, there's nowhere to pay it to anymore.
The apartment feels different now. Like it's already somebody else's space and I'm just a trespasser. The walls seem closer together. The light through the windows looks harsh and unfamiliar.
I try calling old friends, people who might have a couch I could borrow. The conversations are awkward, full of careful questions I can't answer honestly.
"Just need a place to crash for a few weeks while I'm between apartments," I tell Marcus, a guy I went to college with.
"Yeah, man, I wish I could help, but Jenny's pregnant and we're using the spare room for the nursery..."
"It's fine. Congratulations."
"Maybe try Sarah? I think she's got space."
Sarah. Right. My ex-girlfriend who works for the Olandria Tribune's entertainment section. The one who's been texting me for weeks asking if I'm okay because I seem "distant lately."
I can't face telling her the truth. Can't admit that I've been distant because I was sleeping with my best friend's wife and now my life is imploding in spectacular fashion.
By afternoon, I'm out of options. No one can help, and even if they could, I can't explain why I need help without explaining everything.
I need to see him. Need to look Valentinius in the eye and... what? Beg forgiveness? Plead for mercy? Ask him what he wants from me?
I don't know. I just know I can't sit in this apartment waiting for my world to finish collapsing.
The rain starts as I'm walking to the bus stop. Olandria's spring weather is unpredictable, shifting from sunshine to downpour without warning. By the time I reach downtown, my jacket is soaked through and my hair is plastered to my head.
Carradine Industries tower rises from the city center like a glass and steel monument to wealth. Forty-three floors of corporate power that I can see from my apartment window on clear days. It always looked impressive from a distance. Up close, it's intimidating.
The lobby is all marble and mirrors, with abstract sculptures that probably cost more than I've made in my entire career. Business people in expensive suits move through the space like sharks in an aquarium.
I approach the security desk, water dripping from my clothes onto polished marble.
"I need to see Valentinius Carradine. It's urgent."
The security guard looks me up and down, taking in my soaked clothes and desperate expression. His nameplate reads "STEVENS."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No, but he's an old friend. Tell him Theodore Virelli is here."
Stevens and his partner exchange a look. Something passes between them that I can't read.
"Mr. Carradine isn't taking unscheduled visitors today."
"Look, I just need five minutes. Please. Tell him I'm here."
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to—"
"Valent!" I raise my voice, and the sound echoes through the lobby. Several people stop and stare. "I know you're up there! Face me like a man!"
"Sir, you need to calm down." Stevens is standing now, hand moving toward something under his desk. Probably a panic button.
"You can't hide behind security forever!" I'm shouting now, desperation overriding any sense of dignity. "We need to talk!"
More people are staring. A woman in a Chanel suit whispers to her companion while pointing at me. I'm making a scene, but I'm past caring.
"Come down here and explain why you're destroying my life!"
Two more security guards appear from nowhere. They move toward me with the kind of calm efficiency that suggests they've done this before.
"Sir, we're going to need you to leave the building."
"I'm not going anywhere until—"
"Gentlemen."
The voice cuts through the chaos like a blade. Everyone stops moving. Even the whispered conversations halt.
I turn toward the elevators and see her. Tall, elegant, probably mid-thirties. Designer suit that fits like it was made for her body specifically. Her hair is pulled back in a way that makes her cheekbones look sharp enough to cut glass.
She moves across the lobby with the kind of confidence that money and power create. The security guards step back automatically, like she's carrying some invisible force field.
"Mr. Virelli, I presume?" Her voice is cultured, professional. The kind of accent that suggests expensive education and careful grooming.
"Who are you?"
"June Harper, Mr. Carradine's executive assistant." She extends a manicured hand that I'm too stunned to shake. "I apologize for the confusion."
She reaches into her briefcase and pulls out a thick envelope. Cream-colored paper, expensive. My name is written on the front in elegant script.
"Mr. Carradine anticipated you might visit." She hands me the envelope with the same expression she might use to serve tea. "I trust this addresses your concerns."
The paper feels substantial between my fingers. Real weight, not the cheap copy paper of eviction notices and rejection emails.
"He knew I was coming?"
"Mr. Carradine is quite thorough in his planning." June gestures to the security guards with one subtle movement. "Gentlemen, please escort Mr. Virelli out. Quietly."
The guards move in, but their approach is different now. Firm but not aggressive. They're following orders, not reacting to a threat.
"This isn't over," I tell June, though the words sound hollow even to me.
"I believe you'll find it is," she replies. Her smile is perfectly polite and completely empty. "Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Virelli."
They walk me to the street with professional courtesy. No rough handling, no threats. Just the kind of efficient removal that suggests this isn't their first time dealing with desperate people seeking Valentinius Carradine's attention.
The rain has intensified while I was inside. Water runs down the gutters in small rivers, carrying debris toward the storm drains. I stand under the building's awning, clutching the envelope like it might contain salvation.
A businessman hurries past, umbrella tilted against the wind. A woman in heels clicks by, talking rapidly into her phone about quarterly projections. The city moves around me like I'm invisible.
I tear open the envelope with shaking fingers.
Inside is a single piece of cardstock. Heavy paper, the kind used for wedding invitations or funeral announcements. The message is brief:
Sky Palace Hotel
Penthouse Suite 115
Tomorrow, 7:00 PM
Business attire required
No signature. No explanation. Just an address, a time, and a dress code.
I flip the card over. Nothing. No additional instructions, no threats, no promises.
But I know who sent it. Know what it means.
This isn't a request. It's a summons.
I look back up at the Carradine tower, water streaming down my face. Somewhere in those forty-three floors, Valentinius is probably watching. Planning his next move in whatever game we're playing.
I've been reacting to his attacks for days now. Watching my career disappear, my home get sold out from under me, my family connections strain under the weight of lies I can't stop telling.
Tomorrow night, I'll find out what he really wants.
The rain soaks through my jacket as I walk toward the bus stop. In my pocket, the invitation feels like a loaded gun. Heavy with implications I don't understand yet.
By the time I reach my apartment, I'm soaked to the bone and shivering. The building looks different now. Temporary. Like I'm already gone and just haven't realized it yet.
I climb the stairs to the third floor and unlock my door. Inside, everything looks the same, but it feels like a museum exhibit. The home of Theodore Virelli, failed actor. Destroyed by pride and poor choices.
Seven days to pack up my life.
Twenty-four hours to figure out what I'm going to say to the man who used to be my best friend and is now systematically destroying everything I care about.
I set the invitation on my coffee table and stare at it until my eyes water. Tomorrow night will change everything. I can feel it in my bones.
The question is: will I survive whatever Valentinius has planned?