My roommate, Madison, had only been out the door for five minutes. Her tablet, forgotten on the coffee table, suddenly chimed and the screen flared to life. It was a reflex, really—a quick glance to see if it was something urgent. But what I saw froze the blood in my veins. It was a group chat titled "The Free Ride." The messages were flying in, a flurry of digital celebration. One notification stood out, written in all caps: "CHEERS TO THIS MONTH’S JACKPOT!" Right after that, a series of Venmo payment notifications popped up on the screen, one after another. Curiosity—the poisonous kind—gnawed at me. I reached out and tapped the chat. The member list was a knife to the gut. It wasn’t just Madison. It was our landlord, Mr. Henderson, and our two other roommates, Kayla and Tinsley. "Seriously, Madison, you’re a genius," one message read. "If you hadn’t suggested we overcharge Evelyn on the rent, we’d all be broke right now. I can’t believe she actually buys the 'inflation' excuse!" "Tell me about it," another chimed in. "Having her as a live-in maid is the best part. We’ve saved a fortune on cleaning services and DoorDash since she does everything for 'the house.' Free labor and free money!" The chat was a riot of laughing emojis and digital high-fives. They were all in there, singing praises to the girl who was footing their bills. Everyone was being thanked. Everyone except me. 1 My fingers were shaking so hard I almost dropped the tablet. I scrolled up. I needed to see how deep this went. Group Creator: Madison. Date Created: January 12, 2023. The day after I’d received my dream job offer. The day I had shared my joy with her, thinking she was my best friend. She hadn't been celebrating for me; she’d been marking a target. And she’d known the landlord long before we moved in. "Hey, Mr. Henderson," one early message from Madison read. "I found a live one. She’s my college roommate. Tons of savings, zero street smarts. All she does is work and study. She won't suspect a thing." "Nice work, Maddy," the landlord replied almost instantly. "Let’s do it the usual way then. I’ll draft the 'special' lease for her." The early messages were logistical—moving dates, furniture needs. But by January 28th, Kayla and Tinsley were added to the fold. They were Madison’s old friends from back home. "Welcome to Project Easy Street, girls!" Madison had posted, followed by a shower of confetti emojis. "Wait, is this for real? We actually get to live for free?" Kayla asked, clearly skeptical. "Pretty much! Our human ATM already paid the security deposit. I told her it was double what it actually is." "Maddy, you are a legend!" "I love this group name. It’s perfect." "I feel like we’re already family," Tinsley added, her message dripping with fake sentiment. Mr. Henderson popped in then: "We’re going to get along just fine, ladies." I stared at the words until they blurred. My stomach did a violent somersault. I pulled out my own phone and began recording, my hands trembling as I scrolled through the history, capturing every toxic word. In the beginning, Kayla and Tinsley were cautious. Most of the talk was about the split. Madison: "Since I set this up, I’m taking the master suite. No arguments." Kayla: "Tinsley and I will share the bigger guest room on the east side." Tinsley: "So, how’s the math actually working?" Madison: "Okay, look. This place is fully renovated. Market rate is about $3,500. But I told Evelyn the rent is $6,000. That means we each 'owe' $1,500. But since the actual rent is way lower, we just have to cover the remaining $500 among the three of us." She continued: "Since I’m the lead, I’ll pay $200, and you two split the other $300. Then, for utilities, WiFi, and the HOA fees, I’m going to bill her triple. Whatever is left over after the real bills are paid, we split it 40/40/20. Forty for Henderson, forty for me, and twenty for you two." "Basically, we’re living here for next to nothing," Madison concluded. "And if we play our cards right, we might actually turn a profit." Tinsley’s reply was instant: "I’m in. Kayla?" Kayla: "Hell yes. This neighborhood, this apartment? Say no more." The real rent was $3,500. I was paying $2,500 a month on my own for the smallest, draftiest room in the back. The sheer audacity of it made the air in the room feel thin. Click. The sound of the front door unlocking. I shoved my phone into my pocket and exited the tablet's messaging app. Madison walked in, dropping a shopping bag on the counter. She picked up her tablet without a second thought, resuming the show she’d been binging. "Hey, Evelyn!" she called out toward the kitchen, her voice sweet as saccharine. "Is dinner almost ready? I’m starving!" "Almost," I managed to choke out. I turned back to the stove, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I forced myself to move, to plate the food, to play the role I’d been cast in. The "human ATM" was still open for business. For now. 2 "Oh my god, this braised short rib smells incredible," Kayla said, inhaling deeply as she sat down. "Evelyn, you’re seriously a lifesaver," Tinsley added, her smile as bright and hollow as a Christmas ornament. I watched them—their practiced smiles, their easy camaraderie—and felt a wave of nausea. "I left the onions out of your portion, Madison," I said, my voice eerily steady. "I know you hate them." "You always remember," Madison chirped, her eyes locked on her phone. "You’re the best, seriously." "Let’s eat before it gets cold," I said, picking up my fork. I couldn't bring myself to take a bite. "Oh, by the way, Evelyn," Madison said between mouthfuls. "Mr. Henderson reached out. He said he wants the next year’s rent upfront by March 1st." I paused, my fork hovering over my plate. "Upfront? We’ve been doing six-month blocks. Why the change?" Madison sighed, the picture of sympathetic frustration. "He says the market is crazy right now. Apparently, there are three other groups willing to pay way more than us if they can sign a two-year lease today. He told me he’s only keeping us because of our 'history,' but he needs the security of a full year’s payment to keep the price locked in." I looked down at my plate, the logic of the group chat screaming in my head. Keep it together. Don't let them know you know. "I... I only have enough saved for six months," I lied, keeping my head down. "I’ll have to move some things around. Scrape it together." "I knew you'd understand," Madison said, though there was a flicker of tension in her voice. "I was so worried we’d lose the place. I’m broke this month—I'm literally eating through my savings just to stay afloat. The thought of a whole year’s rent is giving me a panic attack." "It’s brutal," Kayla chimed in. "Everything is so expensive lately. I feel like I’m drowning." I listened to them complain about their "poverty," while the memory of those Venmo notifications burned in my mind. I was paying for their lives, and they were still trying to squeeze more out of me. The meal tasted like ash. They finished every scrap, laughing and chatting while I sat there like a ghost at my own table. When the last plate was cleared, Madison slumped back on the sofa. "Ugh, I’m so full I can’t move. Evelyn, would you mind taking care of the dishes? I really need to finish this episode before I pass out." Kayla and Tinsley were already halfway to their rooms, murmuring their thanks as they vanished. I stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the wreckage of a dinner I’d paid for and cooked. The water in the sink was cold. It didn't compare to the chill in my heart. Once I was sure they were all tucked away in their rooms, I locked my bedroom door and leaned against it, letting out a breath I felt like I'd been holding for a lifetime. I put on my headphones and opened the video I’d recorded. 3 The chat history was a jagged blade, twisting deeper with every scroll. I moved back to last winter, right before the holidays. We’d agreed to a massive deep-clean of the apartment. That morning, Madison had been doubled over on the sofa, clutching her stomach. "Evelyn, I’m so sorry. My cramps are so bad I can’t even stand up." I’d spent an hour making her herbal tea and soup, telling her to just rest. Then Kayla called, saying her boyfriend’s car broke down and she had to go get him. Finally, Tinsley texted saying an "emergency project" came up at work and she’d be at the office until midnight. I spent ten hours scrubbing the floors, the baseboards, and the windows of that massive apartment alone. And then, I found the messages from that day. Madison had posted a photo of me from behind, kneeling on the floor with a scrub brush. "Look at our little Cinderella go," she’d written. "She’s so eager to please. It’s almost sad." "God, she really is a born martyr," Kayla replied instantly. "Check out these shoes I just found at the mall. Cute, right?" "Love them!" Tinsley chimed in. "I’m at the bar around the corner. Send me your location, I’ll meet you there after I 'finish my project' lol." "It’s so nice having someone to do the dirty work," Madison added with a smug emoji. I gripped my phone, my nails digging into my palms. I remembered that night—I’d been so exhausted I’d skipped dinner and gone straight to bed, feeling guilty that they were all having such a "hard day." I kept scrolling. Last December. I’d been hit with a 103-degree fever. I was shaking, unable to get out of bed. I’d texted Madison, asking if she could pick up some ibuprofen from the pharmacy downstairs. "I’m so sorry, babe! I’m swamped at work. Maybe call an Uber Eats for it?" I’d ended up taking a cab to the ER myself, sitting in the waiting room for four hours while my head throbbed. Not a single one of them checked on me. At 1:00 PM that day, Kayla had posted a screenshot in the group chat. It was a receipt for a $200 sushi feast. "Rent money just cleared," she wrote. "Treating ourselves! This spicy tuna is life-changing." While I was shivering under a hospital blanket, they were feasting on my overpayments. Then came October 18th. My birthday. I’d left work early, excited to celebrate with them. I’d spent $300 on groceries and wine, cooking a four-course meal. I’d sent a photo of the table to our real group chat. Madison didn't reply for an hour. "Oh, Evelyn! I’m stuck at the office. Don't wait up." "Same here," Kayla followed. "Boss is being a literal demon." "I’m stuck in a client meeting across town," Tinsley added. I’d sat at that table alone, watching the candles burn down and the food grow cold. Meanwhile, in "The Free Ride," Madison had posted a selfie of the three of them at a high-end steakhouse. "Cheers to another free meal!" she’d captioned it. "The idiot is probably still sitting there waiting for us," Kayla joked. "Her cooking is so mid anyway," Tinsley added. "I’d rather eat cardboard." The words burned like a slow-moving fire. Every "thank you," every "you're so sweet," every "we're so lucky to have you"—it was all a performance. I wasn't their friend. I was their mark. 4 I forced myself to stop crying. Crying was a luxury I couldn't afford right now. I spent the next week like a ghost, moving through the apartment with a silent, clinical precision. I backed up the videos, screenshotted every line of the chat, and started a spreadsheet. I sat at my desk late into the night, cross-referencing my bank statements with their "invoices." The more I calculated, the colder I became. Outside my window, the city lights were warm and inviting, but my small, west-facing room felt like a tomb. They weren't going to get another cent. Not a single drop. My phone buzzed. A text from Madison. "Hey Eve, you up? I’m starving and craving those dumplings from the night market. Could you grab some? " I didn't reply. I stared at the screen until it went black. A few minutes later, I heard her knocking on my door. I held my breath, sitting perfectly still in the dark. Eventually, I heard the front door close. She’d gone out. I slipped out of my room and checked the tablet she’d left on the sofa. "The ATM is malfunctioning," Madison had messaged the group. "She’s ignoring me. I’m actually going to have to walk down there myself." "Maybe she’s finally catching on?" Kayla asked. "Doubt it. She’s probably just exhausted from doing all our laundry," Madison replied. "Anyway, we need to talk. Rent for 2027 is due next Sunday. I want to make sure she pays the full year, and then I’m going to start making things 'uncomfortable' for her." "Why?" Tinsley asked. "My boyfriend wants to move in. He said if we get her out, he’ll cover her portion of the rent—the real portion. We keep the profit from her year-long payment, he moves in, and we finally get rid of the dead weight." The group erupted in digital applause. "Maddy, you’re a shark. I love it," Kayla wrote. "Finally, some eye candy in the house," Tinsley added. So that was the plan. Steal a full year of rent from me, then bully me into moving out so the boyfriend could move in. I recorded it all. But something felt off. The math didn't fully add up. Why would Mr. Henderson, a property owner, risk legal trouble just for a small cut of the utility overcharges? It didn't make sense. The risk-to-reward ratio was too low. I went back to my computer and started researching. I looked up every listing in our building, every similar unit in the neighborhood. I messaged a local realtor, posing as a prospective tenant. "A renovated 3-bedroom in that building? You’re looking at about $4,000," he told me. "Maybe $3,500 if it's unrenovated or a lower floor." Our apartment was barely "renovated." The furniture was cheap, the appliances were old. If they were making a profit, the actual rent had to be even lower than $3,500. I sat there, staring at the screen. Why was the landlord playing along? Was there something else he was getting out of this? 5 The next morning, the banging on my door started early. "Evelyn! What are you doing in there?" Madison shouted. "It’s almost nine. We’re starving! Where’s breakfast?" I sat on the edge of my bed, the sound of her voice grating like sandpaper. "Evelyn? Are you okay? You’re usually up by now." Her tone shifted into that fake, honeyed concern, but the pounding on the door only got harder. I walked over and yanked the door open. Madison’s hand was frozen mid-air. "What is wrong with you? Are you playing dead?" she snapped, her mask slipping for a split second. "I have a stomach bug," I said, my voice flat. "If you’re hungry, use an app." "What’s with the attitude?" Madison blinked, startled by the lack of apology. I didn't answer. I shut the door in her face. "What a bitch," I heard her mutter outside. "Seriously, she acts like cooking an egg is a chore." "I know, right?" Kayla’s voice joined in. "She’s really getting a big head lately." I went to the kitchen a few minutes later, after I heard them retreating. I saw the bowl of beans I’d put out to soak the night before—I’d planned on making a big batch of soup for everyone. I picked up the bowl and dumped the whole thing into the trash. Nothing. They were getting nothing else from me. I spent the next three days finalizing the data. They had inflated the rent by 80%. They had tripled the utility bills and HOA fees. They had charged me for "repairs" that never happened—leaking faucets, AC tune-ups, plumbing issues. They had even been billing me for their own skincare, tampons, and wine, disguised as "shared household expenses." I stared at the final number at the bottom of my spreadsheet. $31,450. In two years, they had stolen over thirty thousand dollars from me. That was a down payment on a house in my hometown. That was a new car. That was my future. "I'm so broke, Evelyn... I'm literally eating dirt this month." "That designer bag is so expensive, I'll never be able to afford it..." I remembered Madison saying those things while she was using my money to buy the very things she claimed she couldn't afford. A wave of literal physical sickness washed over me. I ran to the bathroom and gagged over the toilet, but nothing came up. I splashed cold water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked haggard. Pale. There were dark circles under my eyes from two years of overtime and stress, all to support a lifestyle for three people who despised me. I dried my face. I picked up my phone and called Jordan, an old friend from college who was now a high-powered litigator at a firm downtown. "Jordan? It’s Evelyn." "Evelyn! Wow, it’s been a while. How are you?" "I’m in trouble," I said, my voice finally cracking. "I need a lawyer. A good one."
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