Burnt Money
Arlecchino’s Penthouse, Downtown - 11.04 PM
The city was quiet beneath her floor-to-ceiling windows, lights winking in the distance like dying embers. Arlecchino sat at her desk, sleeves rolled, blazer tossed over the back of the chair, a glass of whiskey going untouched at her side. The soft hum of her laptop was the only sound in the room.
She didn’t usually dig into new hires.
But something about YN Roselier had lodged in her mind—quiet, unpolished confidence; the steady way she’d looked her in the eye, even while apologizing. The way she’d pressed a kiss to her son’s curls like it was second nature. Soft didn’t mean weak. And Arlecchino had learned to pay attention to women like that.
So she clicked open the internal HR files. Routine. A glance.
Then she paused.
Marital status: Divorced.
No surprise there—Arlecchino could read the wear in YN’s shoulders, the kind that didn’t come from corporate ladders.
But the name beneath the sealed court record made her brows lift—just slightly.
Ajax Grant.
Arlecchino leaned back in her chair.
Now that was interesting.
She tapped once. A deeper scan. Grant Pharmaceuticals. Heir apparent. Too many headlines. Too many deals under too many tables.
And once—married to YN Roselier.
Her lips curved, not quite into a smile. More like curiosity taking shape.
“So that’s who you used to belong to,” she murmured.
Not that YN looked like anyone’s possession.
She opened a few more tabs—public records, news archives, the soft trail most people didn’t know they left behind. YN didn’t post much. But the pieces were there.
Photos from a wedding five years ago. A magazine blurb about a "quiet ceremony between pharmaceutical heir and local entrepreneur." No follow-ups. No baby announcement. Just a new last name that disappeared a year later.
And then, YN again—now Roselier, no hyphen—appearing on social media in small bursts: birthday cupcakes for Ben, a blurry selfie with a tired smile, a shot of her desk at some temporary job with the caption “Getting through it.”
Resilient.
Arlecchino’s eyes narrowed faintly.
Ajax had always liked arm-candy. But this wasn’t that. YN wasn’t just a trophy who’d slipped through the cracks. She was sharp, quiet, and clearly knew how to rebuild from rubble. She’d traded penthouse suites for studio flats and made it look survivable.
Her fingers drummed lightly on the desk.
Ben, too. That kid wasn’t ordinary. Polite. Observant. Called her pretty like it was a fact, not a trick. Most children flinched in her presence. He offered her half a muffin like it was a business deal.
And now.. the ex-wife of Ajax Grant was sitting in her company—whether by fate or by accident—with a son who asked smart questions and a look in her eye that said she wouldn’t crumble twice.
This wasn’t just interesting.
It was a complication.
Or maybe..
A possibility.
Arlecchino clicked the laptop shut, finally lifting the whiskey to her lips. It was lukewarm now, but the burn grounded her.
Tomorrow, she’d see what YN could really do.
And if the past she’d escaped was going to come knocking again—
She wanted to be standing at the door first.
Roselier Flat, Small Living Room - 11.16 PM
The hum of the fridge was the only sound in the flat. Outside, the streetlights buzzed faintly through the blinds, casting soft gold stripes across the faded rug. YN sat curled on the secondhand couch, one leg tucked under her, Ben’s little dinosaur backpack still sitting by the door where he’d dropped it earlier.
The air smelled like fabric softener and microwaved mac and cheese. Ben had fallen asleep an hour ago—right in the middle of asking if muffins were a breakfast food. He was curled up in bed now, clutching his favourite pillow like it was a shield against the world.
YN exhaled slowly and unlocked her phone.
Her thumb scrolled through Instagram, autopilot.
Photos of old college friends with engagement rings. Beach vacations she couldn’t afford. Influencers lighting candles beside spotless countertops. A clip of someone making oat milk from scratch.
She paused at a blurry photo from this morning.
Ben, mid-giggle, chocolate muffin in hand. A smear of frosting near his mouth. It was out of focus, but his joy radiated anyway.
A small smile tugged at her lips.
Then—ping.
The screen shifted. A new notification.
Reminder: Upcoming Payment Due — RENT (April)
Balance: $1,645.00
Due in: 3 Days
Her smile faded.
The warmth in her chest hollowed out, replaced by that familiar thud of quiet panic. That tight feeling in her ribs. She stared at the number, as if it might blink away.
It didn’t.
Of course it didn’t.
She tilted her head back against the couch cushion, phone still in hand. The ceiling above her was cracked in the corner. The kind of place you could never quite finish fixing. Just like everything else.
That interview had gone better than expected. And yet..
She didn’t know if she’d said too much. Or not enough. She didn’t know what kind of person Arlecchino was—powerful, obviously. Maybe dangerous. Definitely unreadable.
“You’re here for the marketing role, aren’t you?”
“Let’s discuss it over coffee.”
YN’s thumb hovered over the message, then locked the screen instead. She couldn't deal with the bill right now. Not tonight.
She leaned over and tugged the throw blanket across her lap, curling into the silence.
“I’ll figure it out,” she whispered to no one.
Like she always did.
But this time—
Something deep in her gut told her the game was changing.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow was coming fast.