Page 63 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

I reach for the bar, careful not to let my fingers brush his. I smile but it feels off.

“Thanks,” I manage. “I forgot to eat this morning.”

He studies me for a second. Then he nods.

“If you need anything,” he says, “text me.”

Then he just turns and walks out. I don’t know what to do with that, or him. Or any of this. I snatch the protein bar off the desk and swallow it in three bites.

I ignore the fact that I’m shaking. Acknowledging it means acknowledging the reason behind it. I don’t know if it’s adrenaline or guilt or just exhaustion.

I spend the rest of the morning pretending everything’s fine. And it is. Mostly.

My energy’s off and I know it. I forget the cool-down in the second class and have to tack it on awkwardly after I already told everyone the class was over. Two clients linger after, asking if I’m okay, and I wave them off with a too-big smile that hurts my face.

I just keep on trucking through the day. I run my classes and repeatedly fix the reformer by the wall that keeps squeaking nomatter how many times I fix it. Later in the early afternoon, my phone buzzes.

It’s a message from one of my longtime clients. She used to book me out two months in advance, but lately her attendance has been spotty.

Jessica: Hey! So sorry to cancel again. Things are just crazy right now. I’ll reach out next week to reschedule.

I stare at the message for a full ten seconds before setting my phone facedown next to the studio iPad. It’s not even five minutes later when another cancellation rolls in. This one doesn’t come with a message, just a system alert saying the spot’s open.

Then another comes through. And another.

Desperate for a distraction, I snatch my phone back up and open Instagram. And then immediately regret it.

The first thing on my feed is Sierra fucking James.

She’s in a designer crop top, standing under some branded neon sign, holding what looks like a plaque for “Most Annoyingly Perfect Human of the Year.” Except it’s not some fake nonsense, it’s a real award.Women in Wellness Innovator.

I click through to her profile because clearly I’m some kind of masochist. It only gets worse from there. A promo video autoplays with slow-motion shots of her studio. I wrinkle my nose at the flawless lighting, perfectly synced group classes, instructors smiling—myinstructors.

There’s a testimonial from a B-list actress. A partnership tag with some celebrity fitness clothing line. And on and on.

In the comments, half the wellness world is applauding her. The other half is tagging friends. I recognize several usernames. They used to train here before they jumped ship. And I can’t even blame them, can I? Sierra’s studio is perfection and she runs promos that no one could say no to.

There’s a new post when I exit back to her profile. The caption is smug, aspirational, and ridiculously generous all at the same time.

When you build something real, people feel it. Come move with us. First ten new clients get their first month free.

I know what I’ve built is good. It just doesn’t feel like enough. Especially not today.

She’s out there winning awards and giving away whole months of classes, and I can’t even pay my rent this month. There’s no way I’ll be able to make that payment after all the cancellations today.

Then I close the app, shove my phone into the drawer, and close it a little too hard.

It’s fine.

It’s not fine.

By the time I close the studio, I’m so drained I almost forget to lock the door.

Every muscle in my body aches. All I want is to collapse on the couch. Maybe cry. Mostly I just want to disappear under a blanket and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist.

When I walk into the house, I know immediately that I’m not getting any of that.

I hear Gigi in the kitchen before I see her—this high, delighted laugh that scrapes my nerves. It’s performed joy, which means only one thing: she has company.