Chapter 3 | How to Get Cancelled in 24 Hours (1)

Luna learned to cook one-person pasta with two pot lids on the third day after they threw her out of the Fifth Avenue penthouse.

It turned out a heiress's useful life skills topped out at zero. The only things she did well were folding a napkin into a swan and holding a smile for eight hours at a gala without her face cramping. Neither skill was worth much in a Brooklyn walkup, unless the landlord minded her using napkins as curtains.

The apartment had been advertised as "quietly tucked away, flooded with light." It was, she discovered on arrival: the quiet was her phone on silent, because the unit below hers had a party at three every night. The light came from a window that looked directly into the apartment across the air shaft, where a middle-aged man watched football in a dinosaur onesie.

Luna stood at the window, considered this, then decided against closing the curtain.

"Nah," she told the glass. "He watches me, I watch him. Fair's fair."

The first night she tried to bake a frozen pizza in the oven. The oven died halfway through. The pizza came out as charcoal. She stared at the carbon disc for thirty seconds, then put it on her mental to-do list: buy two pot lids first thing tomorrow.

Day one, her credit cards all died. She stood at the ATM watching the words INSUFFICIENT FUNDS blink back at her, then calmly flipped her black card over to check the signature on the back and slid it into her bag again. She moved like she was handling someone else's estate.

Day two, the family lawyer reclaimed the properties and the cars "as family assets." That included the powder-blue sports car she loved. Luna watched the tow truck hook it up, took a photo, and posted it: "Officially divorced from my car today. It has its road. I have mine."

The comments exploded. Crazy. Tragic. Rich girl playing victim. She read every single one, liked them all, and tossed the phone aside. "They're right. I am pitiful — just, not about the thing they think."

Day three, the press releases dropped.

Sterling's Rebellious Heiress Throws It All Away. Luna Sterling's Mental State in Question, Suspected Long-Term Substance Abuse. Source: She Berated Her Adopted Sister at a Gala, Consumed by Envy. Thirty-seven outlets. Same wording, same conclusion: Luna Sterling was a madwoman, ungrateful and unhinged, and being disowned was the kindest thing her family had ever done for her.

Trending at number one: #LunaSterlingIsCrazy.

Luna sat on the floor of the walkup with a used laptop — bought with her last savings — and read all thirty-seven.

"Lovely prose." She nodded. "Too bad the people writing me don't know me. They say I'm on pills. They don't know I'm allergic to aspirin."

She thought for a second, then opened a streaming app and made an account. Profile photo: a selfie of her sitting in a cardboard box. Bio: Bankrupt Luna | Surviving on two pot lids, daily.

That night she went live.

Three hundred people were watching. Most had come to scream at her. The chat scrolled too fast to read: crazy bitch get out of New York, you deserve it,now you know what no money feels like,cry for us.

Luna glanced at the chat, turned the camera on herself, and said, flat and even: "Lesson one. How to make a pizza that's almost edible without an oven, using a pan."

She started kneading dough. Flour went everywhere. She kept talking while she worked. "Someone asks if I regret it. No. Someone asks if I'm sad. A little — mostly sad I didn't bring any of the thirty gowns out of that house. Should've packed a warm one."

The chat short-circuited. ??? YOU'RE WORRIED ABOUT THE DRESSES???

"What else?" She patted dough into the pan, slapped a lid on it, and turned back to the camera dead serious. "I lost everything. I had to take something. Too mad that night. I was busy smashing the family crest."

Somebody in the chat started laughing. She finished the demo and added, "Also, my parents are probably in a family meeting right now deciding how to delete me from the family tree. Pro tip, for anyone who still has parents: back yourself up. You never know when you get one-click deleted."

she's roasting themshe's roasting them but she's so rightsomeone sedate her I'm in love

"Lesson two." She held up a bedsheet and a length of clothesline. "How to make curtains when the landlord won't return your calls. Step one: drape. Step two: pretend you meant it. Step three —" she tied a knot at the rod "— never admit you bought the apartment sight unseen."

The chat sent a stream of laughing emojis.

"Lesson three." She produced a pair of foam earplugs and a roll of tape. "How to sleep while the unit below you hosts a rave at three a.m. Cut the plugs in half. Jam one half in each ear. And if you snore — tape your mouth. See?" She held up the demo. "Now my snoring can't bother my neighbors. Which is my greatest fear, as a woman of the people."