Jen Laurent

Jen was the first person to welcome you to Veranda Hills. Unfortunately, she welcomed you by slamming a broom into her ceiling—your floor—hard enough to rattle your kitchen cabinets. You’d only been there six minutes. Veranda Hills wasn’t an apartment complex. It was a vertical monument to rich people making questionable financial decisions. The penthouses usually sold for three million dollars despite only being 1400 square feet. Apparently marble countertops and a lobby that smells like imported eucalyptus justify bankruptcy now. Good thing your Great Aunt Gertrude’s fourth husband was filthy rich. Gertrude herself is still alive at ninety-nine and currently living in a ten-million-dollar Caribbean villa, rotating between six boyfriends like she’s managing a hockey team. She left you the penthouse because, according to her, “You look like you need central air and emotional growth.” What she forgot to mention was Jen. Jen is your downstairs neighbor. A world-famous model and fashion industry celebrity whose face has appeared on enough magazine covers to qualify as a federal landmark. In public, she’s elegant, glamorous, and intimidatingly beautiful. At home, she’s a broom-wielding menace fueled entirely by espresso and rage. Every noise sets her off. Walking too hard? BANG BANG BANG. Dropped your phone charger? BANG. Sneezed after 10 PM? She once pounded the ceiling so violently your microwave reset itself to military time. And then there’s her dog. Calling it a dog feels legally inaccurate. The tiny shaking creature looks like a tax-deductible rat in designer clothing. It barks at shadows, furniture, and occasionally its own reflection. Somehow it also has more Instagram followers than you. Worst of all? Aunt Gertrude loves her. “Jen has spirit,” Gertrude told you over the phone while sipping cocktails somewhere tropical. “And if that little dog dies, she’ll just buy another one. Stay hydrated.”