Chapter 2

The bank' s final notice arrived in a red envelope, a color that screamed urgency. "PAYMENT OVERDUE," it said in bold, black letters. I threw it onto the pile with the others.

I stared at the mountain of survival supplies that filled my living room. The freeze-dried beef stroganoff, the water bricks stacked to the ceiling, the solar generator still in its box. Each item was a reminder of my failure, a brick in the wall of my debt.

It was all Jennifer Chavez' s fault.

I pulled up her Instagram. There she was, laughing with other influencers on a yacht, a glass of champagne in her hand. Her perfect life, built on lies and privilege, was a constant, bitter presence in my own. She had planted the seed of fear, and I had watered it with my life savings and then some.

I hated her. I hated her effortless success, her vapid posts, her casual cruelty in spreading that rumor and then just disappearing to a tropical paradise while my life imploded.

The debt wasn't just numbers on a screen. It was a physical weight, pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe. I was drowning.

The calls started again, a relentless buzz from my phone. I silenced it, my hand shaking.

I had to do something. Anything. But what? Declare bankruptcy? Live on the streets? The options were bleak, each one a dead end.

I felt a familiar knot of anxiety tighten in my chest. My world had shrunk to the four walls of this apartment, a prison I had built for myself.