Chapter 1

After catching Apollo Powell in the act, he leaned back with a cigarette and said, "Isn’t marriage just dull? Why not an open relationship? You could date other guys too, I wouldn’t mind." I packed up and moved out that night. He thought it was just a fit of anger and posted a picture of my new place with his buddies. "Hey guys, check out her little coop," he joked. "Without me, she's stuck eating scraps." They bet on how long it would take before I begged him to take me back. Little did they know, I was busy with my six-foot-three, perfectly built roommate. The young man had a flair for drama. After a shower, he conveniently ‘forgot’ his shirt and dropped some frosting on his abs. "Can you help me clean this off, sis?"

Apollo stood at my door, looking appalled. "Can people really live like this?" The walls crumbled with a touch, and the floor creaked with every step. The spoiled Apollo refused to come in, filming a short clip from the doorway. [Hey guys, look at her little coop.] Messages buzzed in rapidly. [I thought she had some guts, but she’s really hit rock bottom.] [She’s living the hard life when she could’ve had it easy, eating proper meals every day.] [Just wait till she realizes Apollo was the best she could’ve ever had.] Apollo gave me a smug look. "Nina, do you even get open relationships? Are you stuck in some ancient era?" I casually swept a dried-up dead rat from the corner, right toward his feet. "Gross!" He practically bolted, holding his nose.

Yes, it was an old place—worn and decaying—but the expert I consulted claimed it was in the perfect spot for creativity, ensuring my comic would continue to thrive.

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A few days ago, I went to a bar to pick up a drunk friend and stumbled upon Apollo’s little gathering. A young woman was perched on his lap, and they were practically inseparable, surrounded by cheers from his entourage. I pushed the door open. Even getting caught red-handed didn’t faze Apollo. Instead, he wrapped his arm around the girl and laid it all out. "Nina, if I’m being honest, marriage was never in my plans," he said nonchalantly. "Why don’t we have an open relationship? Don’t worry, the others are just flings; you’re always the main girl." He smirked, "Of course, you could see others too, I wouldn’t mind." Someone chimed in, "But she’s such a good girl, who else would she find if not you?" "I think it's a great idea," another added, "Apollo’s famous for his endless energy, and this way, he gets to have some fast food without always coming home and bothering her." Apollo lit a cigarette, jokingly telling them to shut up. Everyone assumed I’d agree. He didn’t even ask the girl to move. I glanced at my phone, showing the newly deposited seven-figure film rights payment. "Apollo Powell—" I started, "Let’s break up." Apollo’s smile froze, and he finally exhaled smoke. "Alright, just don’t come crying back to me later."

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I was jolted awake from a nap by loud knocking. Shuffling to the door in slippers, I tried to suppress my irritation. "Who—" I stopped mid-sentence, stunned by the sight in front of me. A very young man, about six-foot-three, with broad shoulders and a trim waist. That face was strikingly handsome. "Who are you?" "The live-in help," he said before I had a chance to process, already changing his shoes. "Can I come in?" he asked, answering his own question with a "thank you" as he stepped inside. My phone buzzed. It was my best friend Kahlani. [Did the help arrive yet?] [You might have lost a boyfriend, but life goes on. You barely eat when you’re caught up in deadlines, and I worry you’ll just collapse in that old house without anyone knowing. Hired the cheapest one, but the agency said he’s perfect for single women. Has your monthly visitor arrived? How does he look?] Staring at the young man taking off his jacket in front of me, I texted back honestly: [He’s... not bad.] Just as I sent that message, the help took off his jacket, revealing a snug black tank top underneath, showcasing muscular arms, and then wrapped a hilariously macho pink apron around himself, looking up to ask, "Where’s the kitchen, sis?" Those shoulders, that build, that face—it was striking. I pointed him in the right direction, "Over there." Not two minutes later, I heard a dull thud from the kitchen. When I went to check, I found two broken bowls on the floor. The young man’s eyes flickered with embarrassment as he surveyed the mess. "Sis, you can deduct the broken dishes from my pay."