Quiet Survival
Beatrice
Soft sunlight spilled through sheer white curtains, brushing against my closed eyelids like a gentle insistence. The bed beneath me was impossibly large, the sheets cool and smooth against my skin, smelling faintly of lavender and something expensive I couldn’t name.
“Miss Owens” a calm voice said softly. “It’s time to wake up.”
I stirred, sinking deeper into the mattress before finally opening my eyes. The ceiling above me was high, detailed with elegant molding, and a crystal chandelier caught the light, scattering it across the room.
Lucy stood beside the bed, tablet in hand, dressed in her usual neat attire. She smiled when she saw I was awake.
“Good morning” I said, my voice still thick with sleep.
“Good morning” she replied. “You have a full day ahead.”
I sat up, pushing the duvet aside, my feet sinking into a plush cream rug. The room was massive—too massive—decorated in soft neutrals and gold accents, the kind of bedroom you saw in magazines and assumed belonged to someone else’s life.
Lucy followed me into the walk-in wardrobe, which looked more like a boutique than a closet. Racks of dresses lined the walls, color-coded and perfectly spaced. A tailored navy blazer and a silk blouse were already laid out on the central island.
“I picked something professional but flattering for the morning meeting,” Lucy said. “And a softer option for later, if you’d like to change.”
“Perfect,” I replied easily.
Everything was always perfect here.
After getting dressed, I moved to the vanity where my makeup was already set out. Lucy handed me a cup of water as the makeup artist finished blending foundation along my cheekbones.
When I was done, we headed downstairs. The staircase curved gracefully, opening into a sunlit dining area. A long table was set with fresh fruit, toast, eggs, and pastries. Two maids moved quietly, placing dishes and pouring coffee.
Lucy and I sat across from each other.
“Alright,” I said, reaching for my mug. “What does my day look like?”
Lucy tapped her tablet. “At ten, you have a meeting with Harrington & Co. about their new branding project. At one, you have a lunch date.”
I paused. “A date?”
She smiled knowingly. “The cute guy who asked you out at last night’s charity party. The one in the gray suit.”
I frowned, trying to remember. “Oh. Him.”
“At four, you have a meeting regarding a new investor who approached us last week. And at eight, you have a spa appointment with Karen.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Busy.”
“Always,” Lucy said. “Now—about the date. You asked what to wear?”
I hesitated. “Something simple. Not too… intimidating.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow. “You’re incapable of looking intimidating.”
I laughed. “That’s debatable.”
Before she could reply, a buzzing sound filled the air. My phone.
I frowned. “Where did I put it?”
Lucy glanced around. The sound kept going—persistent, annoying.
“Was it upstairs?” she asked.
“I don’t think so.”
The buzzing grew louder, sharper, echoing strangely. I searched the table, the counters, my pockets.
“Beatrice,” Lucy said, her voice fading slightly. “Your phone—”
The sound became unbearable.
I gasped and sat upright.
The world snapped into place.
No chandelier. No silk sheets. No Lucy.
Just my phone screaming on the nightstand beside a narrow bed.
I groaned and slapped the screen until the alarm stopped. The room was dim, lit only by early morning light sneaking through cheap blinds. My single-bedroom apartment was quiet, the radiator clicking softly.
I stared at the ceiling, heart still racing.
“Of course,” I muttered. “A dream.”
I turned onto my side and reached for my phone again, squinting at the reminder notification.
Finish Dalton Creative mockups — TODAY.
Right.
I pushed myself out of bed. The floor was cold under my feet. No assistant, no wardrobe waiting for me—just a small dresser and a chair with yesterday’s clothes draped over it.
After a quick shower, I wrapped my hair in a towel and brewed myself some coffee. The machine sputtered like it always did, but it worked. I made a simple sandwich, standing at the counter while checking emails on my phone.
Then I moved to my work table—a modest desk squeezed against the window. My laptop hummed to life, and soon the apartment filled with the quiet rhythm of keys clicking.
Emails first. Replies. Minor revisions. A quick video call I didn’t need to turn my camera on for.
I ate my sandwich while adjusting color palettes, sipping coffee that went cold before I noticed. Hours blurred together the way they always did when I was deep in work.
When I finally leaned back and stretched, my shoulders ached.
I glanced at the time.
5:37 p.m.
I blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I had skipped lunch entirely. I’d made two more cups of coffee without realizing it.
I sent the final files to my client and shut my laptop with a satisfied sigh. By the time I changed clothes and grabbed my coat, it was nearly seven.
I decided to eat out. Somewhere warm. Somewhere I didn’t have to cook.
The restaurant was cozy, softly lit, the smell of garlic and butter wrapping around me as soon as I stepped inside. I ordered without hesitation.
“One fettuccine Alfredo and an order of chicken wings,” I told the waiter.
While I waited, my attention drifted to the table in front of me.
A couple sat there, tension sharp enough to taste.
“I can’t believe you,” the girl said, her voice trembling. “My best friend, Mark. My best friend.”
“I told you, it wasn’t like that,” the man replied, running a hand through his hair. “You’re overreacting.”
She laughed bitterly. “Overreacting? You slept with her.”
“It was a mistake.”
“A mistake is forgetting my birthday. Not cheating on me.”
I looked away when her eyes filled with tears.
Their voices faded as my food arrived. I focused on the plate in front of me—the creamy pasta, the steam rising, the familiar comfort of it all.
As I ate, a quiet gratitude settled in my chest.
No one yelling at me. No one controlling where I went or what I ate. No expectations except the ones I placed on myself.
I thought of my parents—of the sudden emptiness their absence left behind. Of Margaret, my guardian, who had taken me in and done her best with what she had. Of leaving her small house at eighteen with nothing but a suitcase and stubborn determination.
The nights I’d cried from exhaustion. The rejections. The fear.
And now—this.
A life I built with my own hands.
I twirled pasta around my fork and smiled faintly.
This wasn’t a mansion. It wasn’t luxury.
But it was mine.
And that was enough.
