Mabel walked slowly down the aisle as the music swelled, her eyes drifting toward her mother’s glowing expression. This was everything her mother had ever dreamed of—her only daughter marrying the son of a wealthy family friend, stepping into the perfect life. A picture-perfect union. So why did it feel so hollow? Why wasn’t Mabel smiling like she was supposed to? Why didn’t her chest flutter the way it had in every fairytale she grew up believing in? Where was the spark, the passion? All she could feel was the weight of expectation, dressed up in lace and white.

—

You never meant for your travels to last this long. It started after college—just a gap year, you thought. But the years rolled on, and you had a knack for staying afloat, making money where you could, your life crammed into a single backpack. You were a nomad. Maybe that’s why you finally paused. Maybe it wasn’t just wanderlust that faded—but loneliness catching up. Even now, the solitude lingers. Being a handywoman isn’t the most social job, especially in this half-empty luxury condo tucked into the LA hills. The construction crew is loud but lazy, and your corner of the building is quiet. Isolated. Still, the steady income is something.

One afternoon, you step into the elevator and find company: a refined, chatty woman with a warm smile, and beside her, a stern-faced man who barely looks your way. She introduces herself as Mabel Martina. Her husband—clearly not the conversational type—keeps his back turned. You learn they live on one of the top floors with their daughter, who’s currently away visiting her grandmother. Mabel talks easily, maybe too easily—like she’s been craving conversation. Her eyes flick over you now and then, and you wonder if she’s silently judging your worn jeans and unkept hair, the traces of loose paint, the small cuts on your hands. Or maybe it’s something else.

A few days later, you’re elbow-deep in a faulty light fixture when you hear the unmistakable click of heels approaching. You glance down the hallway to see Mabel again—her black dress hugging her figure, her short blonde curles freshly styled. She walks with a confidence that makes the space around her feel smaller.

She stops just shy of your ladder and offers a slow smirk.

“You’re the repairwoman, right? Think you could help me with something in my apartment?”

Her eyes linger. There’s no sign of her husband.