Collateral Lies

The unease continued as Alexander arrived Prescott Café. The often vibrant boulevard felt muted, and the morning sun did little to calm the growing knot of cold in his stomach.

As he walked into the café, he hardly noticed the smells of freshly brewed coffee and pastries. He scanned the room, searching for the message's sender.

A woman sat in the corner,  hiding her face with a wide-brimmed hat and large sunglasses. She raised a tiny hand to signal him over as their eyes met.

Alexander hesitated for a second, then came over to her. When he sat down opposite her, she said, "Alexander Presley." Her voice carried intensity.

"And you are?" he asked in a soothing yet sharp voice.

Across the table from him, she slid a manila folder and added, "That's not important." "What's inside will explain everything." Alexander glanced at the letter, then narrowed his gaze at her.

"Why the secrecy? What am I supposed to search for here?

Simply, "Answers," she stated.

This answers, nevertheless, may make you reconsider your understanding of your father and this connection.

Before he could respond, the woman stood up and left the café, disappearing onto the crowded street. Alexander's hands ached to open the envelope, but his head screamed caution.

Finally, he tore it apart and pulled out a stack of documents and photographs. His breath hitched as he flipped through them, each photograph and piece of paper telling a story he was not ready to hear.

His father was involved in more than simply business. These included unethical business methods, blackmail, and bribes. But the last picture, with Isabella's father shaking hands with his own, stopped him cold.

The caption that appeared next to it read, *Debt secured through arrangement*.

The pieces began to fit together. In addition to fortifying the Presley name, the marriage was an agreement to settle Isabella's family's debts.

A sharp stab of humiliation twisted his chest. As he held the envelope, his mind was racing. *I have to tell her the truth. She ought to know what she's into.

              ISABELLA'S POV 

At home, I was cleaning the living room when I heard my parents' voices coming from the kitchen. I didn't initially eavesdrop, but something in their tone made me.

My father said in a troubled voice, "I don't know how much longer we can keep this from her, Felicia."

The creditors are being circled. If this plan fails...

Her mother interrupted, saying sharply yet frantically, "It won't."

"No, it can't. Alexander's family has promised to resolve any unresolved issues following the consummation of the marriage.

"What if she disagrees?" There was a long pause before my mother spoke in a tremulous voice. "Then we lose everything"

My heart sank as the weight of their words hit me.

It was startling to hear their unstable financial situation exposed in this manner, even though I was aware of it. The walls seemed to close in on me, and the air was thick with my parents' misery.

I cried as I pondered, "This is why they're pushing so hard for the marriage." *It's not just about me; it's about survival.

I stepped back from the kitchen, my mind racing. I felt a conflict between my love for Marco and my duty to my family.

How could I choose between my happiness and the ones who had sacrificed so much for me?

               ----------------------------------------

The contents of the envelope weighed heavily on Alexander's mind as he walked around his study that evening.

This discovery was a whole new level of control, even though his father, Elvis Presley, had always been almost oppressively controlling. "Why bring Isabella into this?" he said, running a hand over his hair.

He couldn't deny the regret that was gnawing at him. I don't want to be my father's puppet any more. Just as he was about to call Isabella, his phone rang.

*Remember our loyalty talk?

His father had sent him a note. I hope you're not considering crossing me, son.

Alexander's jaw tightened as he read the words one after the other. The clear message was: he was being watched.

He wasn’t free to make his own choices; not yet, not ever.

Just as the pressure rose, he quickly sent a message to Isabella, hoping to steer things in a direction where he might retain some  of control.

"Meet me at the Prescott Café at noon. I need to speak with you. There's something you need to see".