Chapter 3
I really didn't want to have another showdown with Kenzie in that tiny, suffocating room.
An hour later, I'd unblock her and send a quick text: [Sorry, I was in a meeting.]
She'd definitely be losing her mind over it, but for me? Perfect.
What I didn't know was that the butterfly effect was already in motion.
Because I refused to call her a cab, Kenzie had to figure it out herself. She rushed downstairs and flagged down a taxi on the street.
Unlike the fancy ride I booked for her last time, this time, the regular taxi she grabbed wasn't even allowed past the entrance of the private club.
By the time she finally made it inside that swanky venue, she was actually ten minutes later than last time.
Sebastian was already gone, and word was, the person who set up the meeting tore Kenzie a new one.
The news came back around nine that night.
In our college roommate group chat, someone dropped a message. [Heard Kenzie tried to meet Sebastian today? She couldn't even get past the club's front door and got blacklisted on the spot. That's brutal, lmao.]
The one who sent it was Mila Livingston, the biggest gossip in our dorm. I used to hate her for always running her mouth. But now, as I read that message, a small smile tugged at my lips.
I replied: [Really? What a shame.]
Just a few words, totally neutral, keeping myself out of it.
Then I closed the group chat and opened up a job search site.
In my previous life, after college, I landed an admin job at a small company, making 1,500 dollars a month. I rented a tiny room in a run-down neighborhood, and half the money I managed to save got "borrowed" by Kenzie.
My life felt like a path everyone walked all over, getting more suffocating and hopeless with every step.
This time, I wasn't going back to that company.
I remembered a senior I met at an industry forum in my previous life—Valentina Irwin, who worked in luxury PR.
She once told me, "Sherlyn, your taste and writing skills are really impressive. If you're interested, you could give it a shot at my company."
But back then, I turned her down because Kenzie said, "The PR world is way too complicated for you. You wouldn't be able to handle it."
As I looked back now, Kenzie probably wasn't really looking out for me. She just didn't want me to get ahead.
After all, tools were meant to stay in their lane and not make any waves.
I opened up my chat with Valentina. Our last conversation was from six months ago. I took a deep breath and typed out a message. [Hi ,Ms. Irwin, this is Sherlyn. We met at that industry forum a while back.]
[I'm thinking about switching jobs, and if your company has any openings, I'd love to come in for an interview. I've attached some of my recent copywriting work for you to check out.]
I sent over a few samples of copy I'd been saving up.
Ten minutes later, Valentina messaged me back. [Come to the office for an interview at 3 PM tomorrow.]
I set my phone down and stared up at the dingy yellow bulb overhead. Suddenly, this cramped apartment didn't seem so bad.
At least I was still alive.
As long as I was alive, anything was possible.
The next day at 2:30 PM, I stood in the lobby of Trade Tower III, craning my neck to take in the skyscraper that seemed to pierce the clouds. My heart was racing.
In my previous life, I'd never set foot in a place like this.
Back then, my whole world never stretched more than one mile from my cramped apartment. The farthest I ever went was the convenience store downstairs or the mid-range mall Kenzie would take me to once in a while.
And my office was just some run-down creative park.
But this time, I came prepared.
In the forty-eight hours since my second life began, I did three things: first, I refused to call a cab for Kenzie; second, I updated my resume and portfolio; third, I borrowed a professional business outfit.
The last one took some real effort. I didn't have the cash for new clothes. The most expensive thing in my closet was a 70-dollar shirt.
In the end, I scored a nearly-new black blazer from a secondhand site, a genuine designer label, for just 25 dollars. Paired with my only white shirt and a pair of dark slacks, I actually looked a lot more professional in the mirror.
I even spent an hour learning a simple office makeup routine.
Back then, Kenzie always said, "You don't look good with makeup. Just go natural." Now I got it—she wasn't being honest. She was just afraid I'd actually look good.
"Ms. Wilkinson, Ms. Irwin is ready to see you now." The receptionist's voice snapped me back to reality. I took a deep breath and stepped into the elevator.
Valentina's office was on the fifty-eighth floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over all of downtown. When I walked in, she was standing by the window, talking on the phone.
Her gestures were sharp and decisive, her words fast but crystal clear. She looked about thirty-five, short hair, rocking a perfectly tailored gray suit. Her vibe was so strong that I almost couldn't look her in the eye.
In my previous life, just being in the same room as someone like her would've made me so insecure I couldn't even get a word out.