3

Isabella

The light outside my building is still busted. Two weeks, three messages to the landlord, and nothing—unless getting high and selling weed from his truck counts as “maintenance.”

That’s the Bellefleur District for you. Streetlamps that don’t work, landlords who don’t care, neighbors who mind their own business. I should just be grateful the hot water runs most days.

Balancing leftover Chinese in one arm, I dig for my keys. The front door isn’t even latched again. If you don’t slam it, it stays open—real comforting when you’re a woman walking in alone at night. I slam it shut behind me.

Two flights up to my third-floor walk-up and my feet are screaming. All I can think about is collapsing on my couch, inhaling my food, then dragging myself to bed.

The keyboard in the corner catches my eye, still covered. I can’t remember the last time I wrote a song or even played. It’s hard to be creative when you’re always running on fumes.

No TV here—just my old laptop and VideYou, where indie musicians post their work. My people, even if none of them know I exist.

The General’s chicken is so spicy it burns my tongue. I chug water, which does nothing. It makes me think of Joey’s office minibar. Or his father’s. I can’t picture Kyan cracking open a cheap beer—he’s a fine-whiskey man. Old-school. Commanding.

God, what must he think of me? He almost caught me on my knees for his son.

A knock jolts me, hard enough that the takeout almost spills. Past midnight. Only one person would show up now.

I unlock the deadbolt and chain. “Thomas?”

“Open up—it’s me,” my brother says. His voice is clear—he’s sober tonight.

“How’d you get in the building?” I ask as I swing the door open.

“Front door wasn’t shut.” He strolls in like he owns the place, all six lanky feet of him.

Of course. Someone came in after me and didn’t bother to close it.

“Hey, sis. Ooh, Chinese.”

Before I can answer, he snatches my chopsticks and drops onto my couch.

“Thomas,” I warn. “We talked about this. Call first.”

He smirks. “It’s not like you’ve got company.” He shovels food into his mouth.

“I was eating that.”

He blinks, like it’s news to him, then sets the carton down.

“Go ahead,” I sigh.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Just eat it. What do you want?”

“Just saying hi.”

I give him my best try again stare.

“Fine. I need a place to crash. My roommate’s pissed at me.”

Shocking.

“Couch,” I say.

He eyes it—it’s barely long enough for me to stretch out, and I’m five-four.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Take the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“You’re the best,” he says, already halfway through my chicken.

In my room, I shove my vibrator into the drawer and swap the sheets, stealing the good blanket for myself.

When I come back out, he’s eating my chow mein.

Yeah, he’s a pain in the ass. But he’s all I’ve got left for family.

And at least he’s not asking for money. Probably because he knows there’s none to give.