Page 32 of Ruin My Life
I disconnect my laptop from the dock and slip it into the top drawer of my desk. The interior is lined with copper mesh—a makeshift Faraday cage to block all signals, in or out. Just in case.
I lock the drawer and rise from my light purple chair, stretching my spine until it cracks.
My limbs ache. My eyes burn.
I’ve spent the better part of four hours compiling that file. And even though I technically have two days left before the deadline—I’m done.
The longer you lurk in someone’s system, the higher the chance you get burned.
I drag my feet across the light wood floor, leaving my cluttered little office behind for the night.
If anyone saw this place, they’d never believe someone likeThe Black Roselives and works here.
Plain white walls. Minimalist furniture. A cheap IKEA bookshelf stuffed with old textbooks I keep saying I’ll donate. A pastel keyboard. A mouse with a cloud-shaped wrist support. And my chair matches, of course—lavender, soft-cushioned, with extra lumbar support.
Cute. Innocent. Unsuspecting.
Unless you know what to look for.
Like the Faraday drawer. The gun safe embedded beneath the desk—right where my knees sit. The motion detectors in every corner. The triple-reinforced lock. The silent alarm that triggers if someone so much as touches my door without disarming the code.
I don’t take chances.
Not anymore.
The rest of the apartment follows the same rules: simplicity layered over strategy.
The walls are sparse, but not bare. A framed photo of Banff hangs between my office and bedroom doors—my family smiling on a day when everything still made sense.
Bright-coloured appliances. Fuzzy rugs. A few hardy plants that I somehow haven’t killed yet.
Too much minimalism is suspicious. So I’ve left traces of who I used to be all over the place.
Scattered pieces of a girl who’s gone…
But not forgotten.
I push open the bedroom door and start peeling off my clothes, tossing them toward the hamper without looking.
After a hot shower and a quick brush of my teeth, I tug open the dresser drawer—only to remember I still haven’t done laundry.
Of course.
All that’s left are the lacy little things I save for the rare nights when I want to feel… something other than rage.
Sexy, maybe. Confident. Powerful.
Tonight, I’m not in the mood for sexy.
Like every other night, I’m justtired.
Still, I pull on a pair of cheeky black panties, the sheer lace hugging my hips as I catch sight of myself in the mirror. It’s the kind of lingerie that could make even a hermit feel like a goddess.
But the admiration doesn’t last.
My eyes drift upward. From my hips to my chest.
And that’s where the fantasy ends.
