I raised my hand and slapped him across the face as hard as I could.

The crack rang out sharp and clear down the empty street.

His head snapped to the side. A vivid red handprint bloomed across his pale skin.

"We're done."

I turned and walked away without looking back.

Otto shouted after me. "Joan! If you walk away today, don't ever expect me to come crawling back! You have no idea what you're throwing away!"

I didn't slow down. I raised my arm, flagged a cab, climbed in, and slammed the door shut.

Back in my cramped little apartment, I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out my phone, ready to block Otto on everything.

That was when a new message popped up in my work group chat.

My boss tagged me in the group chat: Joan, Miss Fox filed a complaint saying you left before the job was done. She just paid an extra ten thousand in rush fees and wants you back first thing tomorrow morning to reorganize her entire walk-in closet. If you blow this job, you'll owe the company triple the penalty for breach of contract!

I stared at the words on the screen, my fingers slowly curling into a fist.

Davina had no idea who I really was. She simply wanted to make life miserable for a disobedient service worker.

I could have quit on the spot.

But as a professional organizer, I had access to clients' most private spaces.

I typed back a single word: Got it.

Tomorrow, I would go back.

The next morning, I rang the doorbell of Otto's apartment right on time.

Davina answered the door. She had a sheet mask plastered across her face and looked me up and down with open disdain.

"Lucky you ran fast yesterday. Today, you're sorting every last designer bag and couture gown by color. Damage even one piece, and selling you off wouldn't cover the cost."

I slipped on sterile shoe covers and white cotton gloves, then walked into the closet.

An entire wall of display cases gleamed under recessed lighting, packed with luxury handbags.

I opened my professional organizing kit and began logging each item's details while performing dust removal and conditioning. Standard procedure for high-end work.

When I reached a Birkin, my gloved fingers brushed a slip of paper tucked inside the inner pocket.

A receipt.

The purchase date was three months ago.

The total: thirty-five thousand dollars.

Payment method: a supplementary bank card ending in 4721.

I stared at those four digits. The air locked in my lungs.