Story code: ST-000759
Part 2: The Energy Exchange
My thumb hovered over the glowing screen. I tapped the master vault icon. The screen transitioned instantly to a neat, alphabetized list of Sloane’s entire existence. There was no biometric block. Sloane had disabled Face ID on this secondary device because she had read on a holistic wellness blog that infrared scanners disrupted the pineal gland.
I scrolled past the social media logins, past the admin portals for her merch line, down to the folder labeled ‘Financials’. I opened the primary business checking ledger.
The balance loaded in the top right corner: $842,119.43.
I stared at the numbers. My wrist gave another violent, electric throb, but the pain felt distant now, muted by a sudden, icy clarity. I scrolled down to the recent transactions. Just yesterday afternoon, while I was fielding panicked calls from her PR agency and begging her sponsors not to drop her, Sloane had wired fifteen thousand dollars to a ‘Quantum Alignment Coach’ in Sedona. Right below that was an eight-thousand-dollar charge for a private chef who specialized in macrobiotic meals for her goldendoodle.
My four thousand, two hundred dollars wasn’t missing because the brand deals hadn’t paid out yet, like she had claimed. It was missing because my survival was less important than her dog’s digestion.
The bag of frozen edamame slid off my lap and hit the marble floor with a dull thud.
I didn’t want to just invoice her anymore. I tapped into the settings of the password manager. I navigated to the administrative recovery options. The backup email was her father’s wealth management firm. I deleted it. I typed in a secure, encrypted email address I had created years ago and never used. I hit save. Then, I went to the two-factor authentication routing. I switched the SMS recovery from her primary phone to my Google Voice number.
With three taps, I had placed a digital deadbolt on Sloane’s entire empire, and I was holding the only key.
But a hostage digital empire didn’t pay my rent by 9 AM. I needed liquid cash before my landlord walked into the courthouse.
I navigated to the brand portal for her upcoming Lumière Wellness Retreat. The contract was signed, but a fifty-thousand-dollar advance was sitting in the platform’s escrow, waiting for Sloane to initiate the transfer. She had told me yesterday she was “too overwhelmed by the energetic weight of new wealth” to click the button.
I clicked it for her. But instead of routing it to her primary business checking, I opened the payee details. I couldn’t use my personal checking account; her father’s accountants would spot my name instantly during the quarterly audit. Instead, I logged into the dashboard of ‘Radical Digital Solutions’-the LLC I used to bill Sloane. I copied the routing number of my business account and pasted it into the Lumière portal.
I hit submit.
The system paused, a loading circle spinning, before a security prompt popped up:
*Unrecognized routing change. To confirm, please enter the 6-digit code sent to your primary device. Code expires in 3:00.*
My blood ran cold. The primary device. The one currently on the nightstand next to Sloane’s head in the master suite.
I held my breath, listening to the silent, cavernous house. If she was awake doing breathwork, she would see the text. If she wasn’t, the vibration on the hardwood nightstand might wake her.
Ten seconds passed. Nothing. No sound from the hallway.
The timer on the screen ticked down to 2:40.
I slipped off the acrylic barstool, my bare feet silent on the cold marble floor. I crept down the hallway toward the master suite. The heavy oak door was cracked open an inch.
I peered through the gap. The room was bathed in the dim red glow of her circadian-friendly nightlight. Sloane was asleep, an expensive silk mask covering her eyes. On the nightstand, her primary iPhone was lit up, silently displaying the lock screen.
Because Sloane had zero concept of digital privacy, she had message previews turned on. I could see the notification banner from Lumière Escrow. It displayed the first four digits of the code: 8-2-4-9…
I needed the last two digits, and they were cut off by the character limit.
The timer in the kitchen was at 1:50.
I pushed the door open another inch. The hinges let out a microscopic squeak. Sloane shifted under her organic linen duvet, murmuring something in her sleep. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. She settled back down, her breathing evening out into a deep rhythm.
I tiptoed into the room. The plush, imported rug swallowed my footsteps. I reached the nightstand, leaning over Sloane’s sleeping face. I smelled the heavy, floral scent of her botanical night cream.
I squinted at the screen. To read the full text, I had to wake the phone fully. I reached out with a trembling finger and tapped the glass.
The code was 8-2-4-9-1-1.
I turned to leave. As I pivoted, my elbow caught the edge of the heavy crystal carafe of alkaline water she kept by her bed.
It wobbled, tipped, and sent a cascade of water directly across the screen of the primary phone. I gasped, snatching the device up, but the liquid had already seeped into the charging port. The screen flickered, flashed a blinding white, and then went completely black.
Sloane groaned and pulled her sleep mask down.
“Maya?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. She squinted at the darkness, then at me, standing over her bed with her dead phone dripping in my hand. “What are you doing in my sanctuary?”
My pulse roared in my ears. The transfer on the kitchen island was timing out in sixty seconds, the primary phone was dead, and Sloane was sitting up, staring right at me.