Chapter 7 - The Uninvited Guest
The small two-bedroom apartment on the North Side didn't have a balcony, a wine fridge, or floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Michigan. It had a radiator that hissed like an angry cat, a small kitchenette with a stove that took three tries to light, and a living room dominated by a secondhand velvet armchair Ryan had bought off a college student on Facebook Marketplace.
It was peaceful.
On a rainy Thursday evening, Ryan sat at the small laminate kitchen table, going over his weekly budget. Rent, utilities, CTA transit pass, groceries, and a small allocation for savings. The numbers were tight, but they balanced. For the first time in his life, every dollar he spent was backed by labor he had physically performed.
A sharp knock echoed at his apartment door.
Ryan frowned, glancing at the small wall clock. It was 8:30 PM. He didn’t get visitors. His former friends had vanished faster than snow in July, and his coworkers stayed within their own neighborhoods after hours.
He walked down the narrow hallway and pulled the door open.
Standing in the dimly lit hallway, water dripping from the brim of a dark trench coat, was a man Ryan hadn't expected to see outside of a courtroom or a glossy magazine spread.
Derek Cole.
He looked older. The arrogant, slicked-back charm that had defined his days of livestreaming parties from the Gold Coast was gone, replaced by a jittery, hollow look around the eyes. His high-end designer jacket was rumpled, and he was clutching a leather portfolio tightly against his chest.
“Ryan,” Derek said, offering a weak, lopsided smile. “Mind if I come in? It’s brutal out there.”
Ryan stared at him for several seconds, the memory of that night at Bellweather House flashing instantly behind his eyes—the phone raised for the livestream, the callous laughter, the cruelty disguised as entertainment.
Slowly, Ryan stepped back, holding the door open. “Make it quick, Derek. I’ve got an early shift.”
Derek stepped into the cramped apartment, his eyes darting around the modest living room with a look of undisguised shock. To someone used to marble entryways and crystal chandeliers, the space looked like a prison cell. But Derek didn’t comment on it; he was too nervous.
“I heard you were living up here,” Derek said, tossing his damp coat over the back of the secondhand armchair without asking. “I figured... well, I figured maybe you’d understand.”Understand what?” Ryan asked, crossing his arms as he leaned against the kitchen counter.
Derek dropped his portfolio onto the laminate table and unzipped it, pulling out a stack of financial statements and legal notices. “The board at my family’s firm... they ousted me, Ryan. Two months ago. Right after the Bellweather fallout. My dad cut off my trust fund, repossessed my apartment, and told me I was a liability to the brand.”
Ryan looked at the papers, then back at Derek. There was no surge of triumphant vengeance in his chest, only a strange, hollow pity.
“You’re here looking for a handout?” Ryan asked flatly.
“No! No, not a handout,” Derek stammered, running a hand through his thinning hair. “I heard your dad gave you a job at the warehouse. I thought... maybe you could put in a good word for me? Some low-level corporate compliance role? Or even PR? I’m good with media, Ryan, you know that. I can help rebuild your image too—we can spin a redemption narrative together, get back into the social scene—”.
“Stop,” Ryan said, his voice quiet, but carrying an edge that made Derek freeze.
Ryan walked over to the table, picked up one of Derek’s legal notices, and tossed it back into the portfolio.
“There is no redemption narrative, Derek,” Ryan said, his voice steady and cold. “There is only doing the work. When my dad stripped me of my title, I thought my life was over because I lost my status. But the worst thing I lost wasn’t the money or the penthouse. It was the delusion that I was somehow better than the people who built this city.”
Derek stared at him, uncomprehending. “You sound like a motivational poster, Ry. Come on. We’re Mercer and Cole. We run this town.”
“No,” Ryan corrected him, his eyes locking onto his former best friend with absolute clarity. “We ruined this town for a long time by thinking we ran it. And I am never going back to that.”
Derek’s face hardened, the mask of desperation slipping to reveal the petulant, entitled boy underneath. “You’re an idiot, Ryan. You’re working a blue-collar slave job for pocket change while your old man sits in his tower laughing at you.”
“My dad isn’t laughing at me,” Ryan said, opening the apartment door wide. “And you need to leave.”
May you like
Derek snatched his portfolio off the table, spat a curse under his breath, and stormed out into the hallway, slamming the heavy fire door behind him.
Ryan stood alone in the quiet apartment. The radiator hissed softly. He walked over to the window, watching the rain streak down the glass into the street below, feeling lighter than he had in his entire life.
