Chapter 7

It was well past midnight by the time I finally dragged myself up the rickety stairs to my apartment. The hallway light was flickering again, making the already depressing place feel even more like a scene out of a horror movie.

Room 304.

My front door had a well cased dish wrapped in foil, waiting for me. My mind instantly went to Mrs lauretta, the landlady. She was a sweet lovely lady in her late forties who genuinely cared about me. Dropping off dinner at my door steps once in a while. And today was no different.

Guilty cause though, remembering that I still owed her rent yet she is still as nice as ever. Picking up dinner, I dug into my bag for the key and Instarted it. Wiggling till I hear the click from the door lock and shoved the door open with my shoulder, pushing my way through.

Home sweet home or whatever you’d call this dump.

The smell of stale air mixed with a hint of dampness tugged my nostrils. That off smell that never seemed to leave, no matter how many times I aired the place out.

My one-bedroom space was, to put it mildly, a dump. My futon sat crumpled in the corner, its sagging middle barely holding up the thin, faded mattress. A blanket I’d had since I moved in four years ago was tossed over it, more holes than fabric at this point, but it did the job on cold nights.

A wooden crate in the middle acted as my “table,” though calling it that was probably generous. It wobbled if I even breathed too hard near it, and it was piled with unopened bills, crumpled receipts, and random junk. An old soda can, a pen that had long since given up writing, and a melted candle all fought for space on top. Next to the crate sat a plastic chair I’d found on the curb months ago. One of its legs was duct-taped back together, but it was better than sitting on the floor.

The kitchenette wasn’t much better. A tiny two-burner stove sat against the wall, it looked greasy from meals I couldn’t afford to cook properly. The sink dripped constantly, and no matter how much I tried to tighten the faucet, it just wouldn’t stop. There wasn’t much to clean, anyway. Just one mug and a chipped spoon drying on a dish towel that is so worn it was practically see-through. The mini fridge in the corner buzzed louder than my thoughts, and I was pretty sure the only thing inside was a carton of milk that should’ve been thrown out last week and half a jar of peanut butter I was rationing like it was gold.

The walls were bare except for a jagged crack that ran from the ceiling down to the floor in one corner, like a lightning strike frozen in place. A single window barely let in any light, thanks to the smudged glass and the glow of the streetlamp outside.

My little apartment wasn’t cozy, It wasn’t comforting, it wasn't even home but it was cheap and I needed a place to stay.

I didn’t bother turning on the light. The dim glow from the streetlamp outside was enough to see by, and honestly, I didn’t want to see this place in full detail. I dropped my bag on the floor, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed onto the futon.

The old springs creaked under my weight as I lay there, staring up at the cracked ceiling. My mind was a mess, jumbling so much it gave me a horrible migraine.

Dad was gone, I still had bills to pay and my worst nightmare was back to haunt me. I blinked hard, trying to fight back the tears threatening to spill. The hospital had called her yesterday. I’d been at work, serving fries, delivering beer and working shifts while my dad was dying. And now he was gone I wasn't even informed on time.

Maybe if I’d answered one of those unknown numbers... Maybe if I’d gone to see him... Maybe if I’d been a better daughter...

No. It wouldn’t have changed anything. That’s the truth I didn’t want to face.

And now, there was the debt. Triple the damn interest. I let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and low in the empty room. Of course, Romona hadn’t forgotten to remind me of that.

My eyes darted to the folder she’d left behind, half sticking out of my bag. It felt like it was staring at me, daring me to open it. The name on the cover was burned into my brain: Declan Pierce.

I sat up, wiping at my face, and reached for the folder. Might as well see what kind of ridiculous scheme I was dealing with.

The first page was a summary of sorts. Declan Pierce, 40 years old working as a real estate agent with annual earnings of seven millions. The terms were straightforward: he needed a wife to meet some inheritance condition set by his late grandfather. A temporary arrangement, strictly business, with a generous payment attached.

My hands shook as I flipped through the pages. The next one outlined the payment structure, how much I’d get up front, how much after the “marriage,” and how much when the arrangement ended. My eyes widened at the numbers. Ten percent in total of the seventy five billion dollars handed to him as his inheritance. It was more money than I’d ever seen in my life, enough to not only pay off Dad’s debts but to actually start over.

Then at the end of the contract lies a space for signature needed. Declan’s name was already signed in bold, confident letters. My name, of course, was blank.

A sticky note was attached to the last page, scrawled in Romona’s neat handwriting:

“Call me when you’re ready. This is your only way out.”

Her number was written underneath.

I stared at the papers, my tightening as I remember the devious smirk on her face. This was insane. Who in their right minds makes a deal like this with a total stranger?

But the alternative was even worse. Losing everything. Being buried under debt for the rest of my life.

I leaned back against the wall, clutching the folder to my chest. My eyes burned, and before I could stop myself, the tears came. Ugly, messy, uncontrollable sobs that echoed in the empty room.

“Dad...”

My voice cracked as I whispered his name.

“I’m sorry... I’m really really sorry...”

I cried until my chest ached, like something inside me was tearing apart, piece by piece. The kind of crying that leaves you gasping for air, clutching at nothing, because nothing feels real anymore. It wasn’t the quiet kind of sadness; it was loud and raw and ugly, the kind you can’t hold back even if you tried.

The tears didn’t stop; they just kept pouring out, hot and endless, soaking into my palms as I pressed them against my face. My whole body felt heavy, like I was sinking into the futon, and there was no way out. My sobs echoed in the empty room, bouncing off the cracked walls and making everything feel even more hollow.

And when it finally stopped, when the tears dried up and the sobs turned into shaky breaths, I didn’t feel better. I didn’t feel lighter. I felt empty. Like someone had reached inside me and scraped out everything that made me, me.

I sat there in the quiet, staring at nothing, my body trembling from the force of it all. My face was sticky with dried tears, my eyes burned, and my throat was raw, but none of it mattered.

The ache in my chest didn’t go away. It just sat there, heavy and unrelenting. I hated this feeling.

I glanced at the window. The faint glow of dawn was creeping in, turning the room into shades of gray.

Morning already? I hadn’t even noticed how much time had passed. I wiped at my face, sniffing hard. My head pounded, and my body felt like it weighed a ton.

I picked up the folder again, flipping through the pages like the answers I needed would magically appear. They didn’t, of course. Pushing myself up, I trailed over to the landline phones just before the bathroom door.

Grabbing it, my fingers hovering over the dial. Staring back on Romona’s number which dared me to make the call.

I hesitated, my thumb trembling over the dial button. This was crazy. No, it was beyond crazy. It was desperate.

But I don't have time to wallow in my grief anymore than I have too. The doubt and other regreat can come later. I need to solve this once and for all. Who knows, maybe it might work out.

Maybe.

I took a deep breath and hit the button. The phone rang once, twice, three times before her voice came through, sharp and chipper despite the early hour.

“Hello?"

Her honey dripping voice came through with a hint of annoyance.

“Hello!, it's Lyla"

“Lyla?!"

She called my name excitingly, hearing her sound that way felt so wrong.

"it's 6am in the morning, you better make sure waking me is worth the call"

she spat

"What do you want”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. The word fought back me trying to spill them out.

“I’ll do it,”

I said, firmly. Like it was the best decision I've ever made.

“I’ll agree to the terms.”

There was a pause, and then I could practically hear her smirking.

“Smart choice. I knew you’d come around.”

My stomach swirled , but I kept my voice steady.

“Just tell me what I need to do.”

Romona’s tone turned brisk, all business.

“I’ll handle the details. You just have to be ready to meet Mr. Pierce tomorrow. And Lyla?”

“Yeah?”

“Try to look presentable. We’re sealing a deal, not dragging you out of the gutter.”

She hung up before I could respond, leaving me sitting there with the phone pressed to my ear.

I dropped it onto the futon and leaned back, staring at the cracked ceiling again.

This was it. The point of no return.