My landlord called and ordered me to move out by tonight. Some of Davina's more extreme fans had tracked down my address and splashed red paint across the hallway.
My boss posted a termination notice directly in the company group chat and demanded I cover the cost of brand reputation damages.
I sat in my apartment with the lights off, listening to someone pounding on the door.
My phone screen lit up. A message from Otto:
"Joan, Davina has a temper. This blowing up isn't good for you. Just swallow your pride and apologize to her. I'll transfer you an extra twenty grand as compensation. Stop being stubborn."
I stared at the message. A cold smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.
He thought I was cornered. That I had no choice but to bend to his will.
But he forgot what I did for a living.
A professional organizer's job isn't just folding clothes. When we sort through a client's belongings, we gain access to the most private corners of their world.
That morning in the walk-in closet, I hadn't just organized designer bags.
I'd also organized the clutter around the safe tucked in the very back. And the combination to that safe was one Otto hadn't changed in seven years. It was still my birthday.