Halfway through my first bite, the woman in red leaves the coffee shop. She strolls down the street without a care in the world. Her coat flaps open as she walks, revealing a black skirt suit underneath. The skirt is so tight it forces her to take small steps, while her black stiletto heels make a click-clack sound as they hit the concrete.

That queue-jumping, donut-stealing witch. I hope I’ll never see her again.

I finish my breakfast and check my watch. Time to go.

The address Leslie—my new real estate agent, and the girlfriend of my best friend, Garrett—gave me brings me to one of those industrial rehabilitations. Before the area was gentrified, the complex must’ve been a factory now turned into lofts and offices. I take to the place at once, liking that history dwells within these walls and that the building isn’t a brand-new high-rise with no soul.

In the entry hall, I check in at the reception and they direct me to take the elevator to the third floor. The elevator is another surprise. Whoever remodeled this lot has an impeccable sense of style and kept the old freight machine instead of opting for a new, shiny metal box that would’ve clashed with the retro, historical vibe of the structure. The interior has been refurbished to transport people with a polished casing, while the metal frame has a distressed paint effect easily recognizable as a design choice rather than spontaneous wear and tear. Admittedly, the journey to the top is on the slower side, but, hey, one can’t have everything.

Once the elevator stops, I step out on the small landing facing three doors. On my left, a double set of industrial metal and glass doors is half-open. Behind its panes, white desks equipped with monitors fill the space. The office seems already running and busy. A bronze plate informs me these are the headquarters of Inceptor Magazine. Never heard of it. Must be some kind of hip startup, judging from how young and trendy its working force looks.

In front of me, there’s a closed wooden door—less glamorous than the glass one but more practical, perhaps. And, on the left, Leslie is coming out of a similar, regular wooden door.

“Lucas.” Her bright smile falters as she spots me, and my heart sinks with a surefire realization: I’m too late. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “But I’ve just rented out the office I wanted to show you.”

My shoulders sag, and because I must be a masochist, I glance beyond the wide-open door to get a peek at the space I’m sure would’ve been perfect.

Instead, I catch sight of a woman in a red coat bent over the single piece of furniture in the room—a white desk—as she signs the lease to my dream office.

Oh, hell no!

I barge in. “Not you again,” I say.