The Price of Desperation
The next evening felt colder than usual.
The tension inside the house was thick, heavy like smoke that refused to leave.
I sat at the dining table, staring at the cracks on the surface, trying not to think about numbers — five million — and the look in my brother's eyes when he left this morning.
My sister-in-law paced the living room, her hair tied messily, her voice sharp as a knife.
"There has to be a way," she muttered to herself. "They'll come back… they'll come back and ruin everything."
I looked up weakly. "Maybe my brother can talk to them again—"
She spun toward me, eyes flashing. "Talk? Talk won't feed your stomach, Anya. Talk won't save our house!"
Her words hit like stones. I lowered my gaze, biting my lip.
She stopped pacing suddenly. Her expression shifted — thoughtful, calculating.
Then she said, "You have that rich friend, don't you?"
I blinked. "Jisan?"
"Yes." She folded her arms, tilting her head slightly. "He's from a wealthy family. Why don't you ask him for help?"
I froze. "What? I… I can't."
"Why not?" she snapped. "He's your close friend, isn't he? You spend time with him, talk to him, go to fancy parties together—"
"It's not like that," I said quickly, shaking my head. "He's just… my friend. I can't ask him for money. That's—"
"Embarrassing?" she cut in, her tone sharp with sarcasm. "You think pride will pay the debt? You think your shyness will save this family?"
My heart thudded painfully. "He'll misunderstand… I can't do that to him. He trusts me."
Her lips curled into something cruel. "Then make him understand. Use what you have. Your face, your softness — men like that fall easily if you act innocent enough."
I stared at her, disbelief and disgust twisting inside me.
For the first time, I didn't lower my head.
"Don't say that," I said quietly, but my voice trembled.
She raised a brow. "What? You think you're above it?"
"I won't do something like that."
The silence that followed was sharp, dangerous.
Then, without warning—
Smack!
The sound echoed through the room.
My cheek burned, and I stumbled back slightly, my eyes wide with shock.
She glared at me, voice trembling with fury.
"You useless girl! You live here, eat our food, and can't even do one thing to help this family? If it weren't for my husband, I'd have thrown you out long ago!"
Tears pricked my eyes, but I didn't let them fall.
Not this time.
I turned away, pressing my palm against my stinging cheek. My heart pounded so hard it hurt.
"I'll find another way," I whispered.
She scoffed. "There is no other way. Either pay or prepare to live on the streets."
I walked to my small room, each step heavier than the last.
When I closed the door behind me, I finally let the tears come — silent, painful, endless.
The moonlight slipped through the cracked curtain, pale and cold.
I looked at my reflection in the broken mirror — eyes red, skin bruised, heart breaking — and whispered to the empty room:
"I'm not for sale."
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky.
It would rain again tonight — just like it always did when life decided to test me.
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Chapter Nine — The Panther's Den
The next morning felt like walking into a dream I didn't want to see.
I hadn't slept all night.
Every creak of the house, every whisper of rain against the window — it all felt like a countdown to something inevitable.
By sunrise, I made up my mind.
If the company wanted money, I'd face them myself.
Maybe they'd listen — maybe they'd give us time.
Maybe kindness still existed somewhere.
---
The city looked different that day — colder, faster, indifferent.
People moved around me, umbrellas like dark wings, cars flashing past on wet roads.
I clutched the paper in my hand with the company's name and address scrawled on it — Vincent Corporation.
The name sounded powerful. Too powerful.
I swallowed hard as I stood before the tall glass tower.
It looked nothing like my world.
Everything about it screamed distance, money, control — and I was just a shadow trying to find a way inside.
Inside the lobby, marble floors gleamed, and the scent of polished wood mixed with coffee.
Men in suits moved briskly, their shoes clicking like a rhythm I couldn't follow.
The receptionist looked up, her practiced smile fading slightly when she saw me — my worn clothes, my nervous hands.
"Yes? Do you have an appointment?"
"N-no," I said softly. "I just need to speak to someone… about a debt issue. It's urgent."
Her smile tightened. "Without an appointment, that's not possible. You can leave your details—"
"Please." My voice broke a little. "It's about my family. I just need a few minutes."
Something in my tone made her hesitate. She sighed, picking up the phone.
"I'll see if someone from the finance division is available."
Minutes passed. My palms grew sweaty. I could hear the faint buzz of conversations, the soft hum of elevators, the world moving too fast for someone like me.
Then the receptionist looked up again. "You may go to the 27th floor. Mr. Hale will speak to you."
"Thank you," I whispered, my voice barely audible.
The elevator ride felt endless.
When the doors opened, the floor was quieter — colder somehow.
A man in a navy suit — Mr. Hale — greeted me with a polite, distant smile.
"I understand you're here about a debt matter?"
"Yes," I said, holding out the notice they left at our house. "My brother's name is on it. We just need some time. He didn't take the loan — it was someone else who used our address. Please, we'll pay, but not now."
He skimmed the paper, expression unreadable.
"I'm afraid this is not a small matter, Miss Hazel. The loan belongs to one of our subsidiary branches — a private client of the chairman himself. Once a contract is signed under an address, responsibility falls to the registered household."
I blinked, my throat tightening. "But… that's not fair. We didn't know—"
He sighed, his tone softer now. "Fairness has little to do with business, Miss Hazel. However…"
He hesitated, glancing toward the corner office with tall glass doors.
"…if you want to appeal directly, you'd have to speak with the CEO himself."
"The CEO?" I asked quietly.
He gave a short, almost pitying smile. "Yes. Mr. Ariyan Vincent Romano."
The name sent a strange chill down my spine.
I didn't know why — but the way he said it made it sound like standing before judgment itself.
●
The meeting had ended, but his mind wasn't on the reports.
He sat behind his vast desk, fingers drumming lightly against polished oak, the rain tapping against the glass behind him.
His assistant's voice came through the intercom.
"Sir, there's a girl requesting to meet you. Debt-related. She looks… desperate."
He almost ignored it. These cases were endless — people always begging, pleading.
Then the assistant added softly,
"She says it's about one of your private contracts. She looks… different, sir. Not like the usual ones."
He leaned back, gray eyes narrowing.
"Send her in."
The door opened slowly.
And for the first time in years, Ariyan Vincent Romano looked up from his empire — and found a pair of trembling brown eyes staring back at him.
Soft. Innocent. Afraid.
But behind them, a quiet kind of strength.
For a moment, neither spoke.
The rain whispered against the glass.
And though neither knew it yet — this was the moment everything began to change.