3: DRUNKARD'S DEBT

Chapter 3: The Drunkard’s Debt

The bottle hit the table before the door finished closing.

That sound meant my uncle was drunk enough to be careless—and careless enough to be honest.

He stumbled inside, jacket half-falling off his shoulders, the sharp smell of alcohol filling the room. My aunt followed him, her face already tight with anger.

“You promised,” she snapped. “You said today you’d fix it.”

He laughed, low and ugly. “Fix what? Money doesn’t grow just because you nag it.”

“The supplier called again,” she said. “They’re pulling out. If that happens, the business is done.”

He poured himself another drink. “Let them.”

“They won’t,” she said. “They’ll take everything.”

That made him pause.

I stood near the wall, hands clasped in front of me, trying to make myself small. I didn’t know why my chest felt tight yet—but it did.

“There’s an investor,” my uncle said finally.

My aunt stiffened. “An investor?”

“Big one,” he replied, smirking. “Powerful.”

“And what does he want?” she asked.

My uncle’s eyes flicked toward me—just for a second—then away.

“He wants a wife.”

The room went quiet.

My cousin, who had been scrolling on her phone at the table, looked up sharply. “Excuse me?”

“He wants marriage tied into the deal,” my uncle continued. “Assurance.”

My cousin stood immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”

No one had even said her name yet.

“I am not marrying some stranger,” she said, her voice rising. “Especially not that man.”

My aunt frowned. “Lower your voice.”

“You’ve heard the rumors!” my cousin snapped. “He’s disfigured. He wears a mask. People say he beats women. You expect me to marry that?”

My uncle scoffed. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being realistic,” she shot back. “Why would I ruin my life like that? Do you know what people say about him?”

I felt cold.

“Alessandro Mendrez,” my uncle said, savoring the name.

Even my aunt inhaled sharply.

“That monster?” my cousin said, horrified. “Are you insane?”

“He’s rich,” my uncle replied. “And he’s saving us.”

“I don’t care,” she said immediately. “I won’t do it.”

She crossed her arms, chin lifted. “I won’t marry a disfigured man. I won’t be locked away with someone who hides his face like that. You can’t make me.”

My aunt looked at her daughter, then at my uncle. Slowly, her gaze shifted.

To me.

The air changed.

“Well,” my aunt said carefully, “we do have another option.”

My cousin followed her eyes.

Her expression shifted—confusion, then realization.

Then relief.

“Oh,” she said softly, smiling. “Right.”

My stomach dropped.

“She’s not our daughter,” my aunt continued. “But she is still your relative no one would question it.”

My cousin let out a small laugh. “That’s perfect.”

I stepped back. “No,” I whispered. “Please.”

My uncle stood, swaying slightly, and pointed at me. “You should be grateful,” he said. “You’re finally useful.”

My cousin walked closer, stopping just in front of me. Her eyes flicked over my face with open disdain—and something darker underneath.

“At least this way,” she said sweetly, “your face will finally match your life.”

“I don’t want this,” I said, my voice shaking. “I’m scared.”

She leaned in, whispering, “You should be. But at least if he’s disfigured, you won’t have to worry about him looking at you too long.”

My uncle laughed.

“Tomorrow,” he said, raising his glass. “You’ll be introduced properly.”

I backed away until my shoulders hit the wall.

The business was failing.

And I was the thing they were throwing away to save it.