You blocked Alejandro Lujan before the taxi even reached your apartment.
The moment your thumb pressed the button, the screen went quiet. No typing bubble. No incoming call. No dramatic explanation from the CEO who had spent the last two years telling you that you were “the only person holding the artist division together.” Just silence, bright and clean.
For the first time in months, your phone felt light in your hand.
You leaned your head against the taxi window and watched Manhattan slide past in late-afternoon gold. The glass towers, the yellow cabs, the impatient pedestrians, the steaming food carts on the corners—everything looked exactly the same. That almost offended you.
Your entire life had just changed, and New York had the nerve to keep moving.
Your salary had been $12,500 a month.
HR had reduced it to $730.
Seven hundred and thirty dollars.
That was not a salary. That was a joke with paperwork.
Lucia Vaughn, Head of Human Resources at Lujan Entertainment Group, had sat across from you in her cold little office on the forty-second floor and told you that your performance “did not meet company standards.” She had said it with smooth lipstick, perfect hair, and the dead-eyed calm of someone delivering cruelty she had already practiced in the mirror.
You had not argued.
You had not cried.
You had not begged to see the full report.
You had simply quit.
Now, as the taxi turned toward your apartment in Queens, you realized something strange.
You did not feel ruined.
You felt tired.
Not sad. Not scared. Just bone-deep tired in the way a person becomes tired after holding up a collapsing building while everyone else complains about the dust.
When you reached your apartment, you paid the driver, climbed three flights of stairs, kicked off your heels at the door, and dropped your work bag on the floor like it had insulted your ancestors.
Your apartment was small.
One bedroom. One crooked bookshelf. One thrift-store couch. One kitchen table where you had eaten too many dinners while answering emergency emails about spoiled influencers, angry sponsors, missing contracts, brand meltdowns, failed album rollouts, and artists threatening to “go independent” at midnight.
You walked straight to your bedroom.
You did not shower.
You did not make tea.
You did not check your email.
You pulled the curtains shut, turned your phone face down, and fell asleep still wearing your blouse.
You slept for fourteen hours.
No dreams.
No panic.
No guilt.
Just sleep so heavy it felt like your body had been waiting years to collect a debt.
When you woke the next morning, sunlight was slicing across your floor.
For a few seconds, you did not remember.
Then you did.
HR.
Performance standards.
$730.
Renunciation.
Block.
You sat up slowly.
Your phone was still face down on the nightstand. It buzzed once. Then again. Then again, like an insect trapped under glass.
You picked it up.
The screen was chaos.
180 missed calls.
260 text messages.
42 emails flagged urgent.
17 voice mails.
Most were from unknown numbers.
Some from colleagues.
Some from Lucia.
But most were from Alejandro Lujan, the CEO you had blocked, now using every assistant, executive phone, conference line, and emergency contact number in the company to reach you.
You stared at the screen.
Then you laughed.
Not loudly.
Not bitterly.
Just once, soft and sleepy, like the universe had finally delivered the punchline.
The first message was from Lucia.
Sofia, there appears to have been a misunderstanding. Please contact HR immediately.
The second was from Alejandro’s assistant.
Ms. Salazar, Mr. Lujan urgently requests that you return his call. It is extremely important.
The third was from your direct team.
Sofia, where is the Morrison campaign approval folder? The sponsor is asking.
Then another.
Sofia, Kira Vale is refusing to go on Good Morning America unless you call her.
Then another.
The Nashville venue says the wire transfer was not released. Did finance get your authorization?
Then another.
The luxury fragrance brand is threatening to pull the tour sponsorship.
Then another.
PLEASE ANSWER. Nobody knows the password for the artist crisis dashboard.
You leaned against your pillows and read them like morning news.
The company had lasted less than twenty-four hours without you.
Impressive, honestly.
You got out of bed, brushed your teeth, made coffee, and opened your laptop.
Not the company laptop.
Your personal one.
You had already left all company devices at reception. You had sent a clean handoff email with every file location, every deadline, every vendor contact, every legal status, and every emergency password you were authorized to share.
You had done the professional thing.
Because unlike HR, you actually had standards.
Your inbox contained several messages from Lujan Entertainment marked URGENT — RESPONSE REQUIRED.
You clicked none of them.
Instead, you opened your banking app.
Rent due in twelve days.
Savings enough for maybe five months if you were careful.
Student loans still waiting like a patient predator.
Your mother’s medical bill from Arizona still partially unpaid.
You should have been afraid.
Maybe later you would be.
But not yet.
Right now, your entire nervous system was celebrating the fact that nobody could call you into a 9 p.m. “quick sync” about an artist who had posted something stupid on Instagram while drunk in Miami.
You made toast.
You ate slowly.
Then your phone rang again.
Unknown number.
You ignored it.
It rang again.
You ignored it.
On the third call, a voicemail appeared.
You pressed play.
Alejandro’s voice filled your kitchen.
“Sofia. Please. Whatever happened yesterday, I need you to call me back. The board is asking questions. Kira is threatening to walk. Morrison’s team says they will sue. The Seoul partnership is frozen. I need to understand what Lucia told you. Call me.”
You took a bite of toast.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
Deleted the voicemail.
Then you poured more coffee.
At 10:42 a.m., someone knocked on your apartment door.
You froze.
Another knock.
“Sofia? It’s Nina.”
You exhaled.
Nina Brooks, your best friend and former roommate, stood outside wearing leggings, a messy bun, and the expression of a woman who had arrived with gossip, concern, and possibly snacks.
You opened the door.
She walked in carrying two paper bags.
“I brought bagels,” she said. “And emotional support cream cheese.”
You stepped aside.
“How did you know?”
“Girl, the entire company knows. Also, Derek from legal called my cousin, who called me, because apparently your CEO is acting like someone removed the engine from his private jet midair.”
You closed the door.
Nina placed the bags on your kitchen counter and turned to look at you.
“Tell me everything.”
