Chapter 1
Chapter 1: Bills Never Sleep
Hadley
The rhythmic, aggressive hiss of the espresso machine was usually the only thing that could drown out the constant, running tally of expenses in my head. Usually. But tonight, even the industrial steam couldn’t quiet the invisible calculator flashing red behind my eyes.
*Tuition gap. Textbook fees. Rent for a house an hour away that isn't even mine.*
I wiped down the sticky linoleum counter of the Redstone University campus café, my movements sharp, efficient, and thoroughly exhausted. At twenty-two, I possessed the posture of a drill sergeant and the sleep schedule of a Victorian ghost. I had my natural red hair pinned up in a messy, defensive knot, and my bright blue eyes were fixed entirely on the clock. Ten minutes until closing. Ten minutes until I could walk back to my shared dorm room, collapse onto my twin XL mattress, and sleep for exactly four hours before my first marketing lecture.
Then, my phone buzzed against my thigh.
It wasn't the standard notification ping. It was the custom, high-pitched ringtone I had assigned to only one person in the world.
I dropped the rag, my heart executing a familiar, sickening nosedive as I pulled the screen from my pocket. The caller ID read: **Jamie**.
I retreated to the dark corner behind the industrial ice machine, pressing the phone tight to my ear. "Jamie? Hey, sweetie, what’s wrong? Are you and Fiona okay?"
"Hadley..." Jamie’s voice sounded eleven years old going on forty, laced with a trembling restraint that broke my heart into a million jagged pieces. In the background, the faint, cartoonish giggles of eight-year-old Fiona offered a jarring contrast. "She’s gone again. She said she was just going to the corner store for cigarettes before dinner, but... it’s been six hours. Her car is gone. Her stash box in the closet is open."
*Janine.*
A cold wave of anger, instantly replaced by the dull ache of routine disappointment, washed over me. Another bender. Another broken promise. Another week of my mother trading her daughters' grocery money for whatever chemical high could make her forget she was a parent.
"Did she take the emergency cash from the cereal box?" I asked, my voice dropping to a fierce, quiet whisper.
"Yeah," Jamie swallowed hard. "The box is empty. There's nothing in the fridge but a jar of pickles and some old mustard, Hadley. Fiona says her stomach hurts from being hungry, but I told her we’re just playing a camping game."
I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting back the useless, stinging tears that threatened to blur my vision. Crying didn't pay the light bill. Crying didn't feed my sisters. "You did the right thing by calling me, Jamie. Listen to me carefully. Lock the front door. Check the window latches. Put Fiona to bed and tell her I’m sending a surprise."
"Okay," Jamie whispered. "Are you coming home?"
"I can't tonight, baby. I have a mandatory exam at eight in the morning, and I'm an hour away," I said, the guilt tasting like ash in my mouth. "Pretend it's a real camping trip for now. I'm sending money to your app right this second. Order a pizza from the place down the street—the one that delivers late. Eat, lock up, and go to sleep. I'll handle the rest."
"I love you, Hadley."
"I love you more. Hang tight."
The line went dead. I didn't waste a single second. I opened my banking app, ignoring the depressing double-digit balance staring back at me, and transferred forty dollars—literally my last bit of disposable cash from my cafe tips—directly to Jamie’s digital allowance card. It was enough for dinner tonight and maybe bread and milk tomorrow.
After that? Total vacuum.
I pocketed my phone, pulled off my apron, and clocked out with numb fingers. Walking out into the cool Arizona night air, I was completely oblivious to the modern, brightly lit campus of Redstone University around me. Fraternities were throwing mid-week parties, music boomed from distant dorm windows, and students laughed as they walked in carefree groups. I felt entirely insulated from them—a ghost haunting a campus I could barely afford to stand on.
When I finally pushed open the door to my cramped, fluorescent-lit dorm room, I was grateful to find it empty. My roommate, Liv, was likely studying at the 24-hour library or out with friends.
I locked the door behind me, slid my backpack onto the floor, and sat cross-legged on my bed. My hands were shaking slightly, not from fear, but from the sheer adrenaline of a survival instinct that never got to turn off.
Reaching into the bottom of my backpack, I unzipped a hidden, waterproof lining and pulled out my secondary, encrypted smartphone—one that wasn't connected to my university cloud or my personal identity.
I unlocked the screen, bypassed three separate security prompts, and tapped on a black-and-gold icon.
The interface loaded instantly, displaying a sleek dashboard with a stylized logo. This was my deepest, most carefully guarded secret. To the world, I was Hadley Morgan: broke marketing student, cynical scholarship kid, and protector of two distant sisters. But on this screen, I was an anonymous, highly lucrative brand.
I checked the digital wallet inside the app. The balance was there, but the daily analytics graph showed a terrifying, undeniable trend line. A steep, steady slope downward.
I stared at the numbers, my jaw tightening. My face-less solo content, shot with meticulous lighting and careful framing to protect my identity, wasn't cutting it anymore. The market was flooded, subscriber growth had entirely plateaued, and the renewal rates were dropping.
"I need a change," I muttered to the empty room, my eyes reflecting the cold blue light of the screen. "I need something bigger. Something that commands a premium."
I knew exactly what the algorithm wanted. What my paying subscribers were begging for in my direct messages every single day. They wanted a co-star. They wanted narrative, tension, and a male counterpart to share the screen.
I leaned my head back against the cold dorm wall, closing my eyes as the crushing weight of reality settled over my chest. I had a mother in the wind, two hungry kids an hour away, and a bank account on life support. I couldn't afford pride. I couldn't afford hesitation.
I just needed to find a partner who was exactly like me: desperate enough to agree, attractive enough to sell, and smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
