My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom

I stepped into New York for the very first time this year.

I landed in Brooklyn, renting a furnished two-bedroom apartment for just $600 a month—a steal by any standard.

The landlord, a smug man in his forties who lived comfortably off rental income alone, handed me the keys with a smirk.

"You're young," he said, shaking his head. "Getting this place for $3,500? Unbelievable."

At the time, I didn't get it—until I checked the listings later.

Turns out, the smaller bedroom in this apartment was going for $4,000 a month.

My name is Emily Valentine. I just turned eighteen.

My first month in New York was spent in a dingy hostel—$10 a night, eight beds crammed into one room.

Every night, I'd wake to the symphony of teeth grinding and snoring, then drift back to sleep in the thick, sour stench of sweat.

I barely spent any time there during the day.

I was too busy hunting for a real place to live—or a job that came with housing.

After rejection after rejection, I was starting to think I'd made a mistake coming here.

Then I saw the listing.

Fully furnished two-bedroom apartment. Seeking roommate. Second bedroom. $500/month.

I pinched myself.

This was New York. A decent bedroom for $500? Impossible.

But then I met Lucas Roland.

Thirty-two. Unmarried. Art broker.

He'd rented the place for business and decided to sublet the spare room.

The apartment was perfect.

A bright, spotless living room. A pristine bathroom. Heating and AC.

And the mirror—oh, the mirror.

Huge, flawless, positioned just right in the bathroom, with a double sink beneath it.

The bedroom still had traces of the last tenant—Hello Kitty decals, girly wallpaper—but I didn't care.

Doing the math, living here would save me $200 a month compared to the hostel.

I stared at the lease, heart pounding.

Lucas watched me, curious.

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"Why aren't you in college?" His eyes flicked over me. "You don't seem like the type to drop out this young."

My throat tightened.

"I got into college," I said, voice sharp. "I had the acceptance letter and everything."

"Then why are you here?"

I bit my lip hard, fingers curling into fists.

The school wasn't Ivy League, but it was good. A degree would've meant a real job. A real future.

But my parents gave me an ultimatum:

Marry who they picked, or get out.

They thought I'd cave.

They were wrong.

I signed the lease with so much force the pen nearly tore through the paper.