The Debt

The smell of blood hit me before I saw him.

Elias sat slumped in a chair, his head hanging, a dark red drip sliding from his split lip to the dusty floor. His shirt was torn, his left eye swollen shut. Two men stood on either side of him like shadows, their hands resting on the handles of their knives—not because they needed to use them, but to remind me they could.

“Your brother’s luck ran out,” one of them said. His voice was deep, cold. “Seventy-two hours. That’s all you get.”

I forced my voice to stay steady. “Seventy-two hours for what?”

“To pay what he owes,” the man replied. “Or…” He drew his thumb across his throat in one slow, deliberate motion.

Elias tried to speak, but the man pressed his hand down on his shoulder, forcing him still. My brother’s eyes found mine through the swelling. He looked ashamed, almost like a child.

“I’ll get the money,” I said quickly. “Just… let him go home.”

The man’s smile was thin. “We’ll let him go when the time is right. For now, he stays where we can find him. Seventy-two hours, Miss Dusk. Tick, tock.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell them they’d regret ever touching him. But my heart was beating too loud in my ears, and I knew—these men weren’t bluffing.

As I turned to leave, I caught one last look at Elias. His lips moved soundlessly, but I understood him.

Don’t.

He didn’t want me to pay. He didn’t want me to make whatever deal these men were waiting for. But it was already too late. I’d make any deal. Pay any price.

Because if I didn’t, in seventy-two hours, my brother would disappear—and I’d never see him again.

The Next Morning —

I didn’t sleep that night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Elias in that chair, his face swollen and bloody. The clock in my apartment ticked too loudly, counting down the hours I didn’t have. I had no money. No one to borrow from. No one who would cross the kind of men holding my brother.

By morning, I was pacing the small kitchen, my phone clutched in my hand, trying to think of any name to call. That’s when a knock came at my door.

It wasn’t a neighbor’s knock. It was slow, heavy. Like the person on the other side knew they didn’t need permission to come in.

I opened it. My eyes widened. In an instant shock. 

“Who?” 

“I'm Dorian Vale.”

“I know you, but—” He stepped inside.

I’d never met him, but I knew who he was. Everyone in this city did. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black suit that looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine—but his eyes didn’t match the polished exterior. They were cold. Grey. The kind of eyes that didn’t just look at you, they measured you.

“Miss Dusk,” he said, his voice smooth and deep.

“How do you know my name?” My voice came out smaller than I wanted.

His mouth curved—not into a smile, but something sharper. “I know a great deal about you. Including your problem.”

My heart thudded. “My problem?”

“Your brother. Seventy-two hours. Forty-eight now, I believe.” He stepped past me without waiting for an invitation, his presence filling the small apartment.

I shut the door, unsure if I was keeping him out of the hallway or keeping myself in with him. “What do you want?”

He turned, pulling a folded sheet of paper from his jacket and placing it on the counter between us. It was a contract.

“I’ll have your brother’s debt cleared. Effective immediately. He’ll walk free without a mark on him.”

I stared at him, waiting for the catch. “And in return?”

“You’ll marry me.”

The words hit me harder than the knock on the door. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His tone didn’t change—calm, certain. “No divorce. No escape clause. You become Mrs. Vale, and your brother gets to live without my enemies tearing him apart.”

I shook my head. “That’s insane. You don’t even know me.”

That sharp almost-smile again. “On the contrary, Alina. I’ve known you longer than you realize.”

For a second, I couldn’t breathe. His eyes didn’t waver. He was completely sure I’d say yes.

And the worst part? A small, terrified part of me already knew… I would.

“Great. You’ll wear red.” He said. About to make a call.

“I don’t—” he stopped. 

“Why?” His tone was smooth, but it had weight to it. “Red is your favorite color.”

The words caught me off guard. My jaw tightened, betraying me before I could mask the reaction.

 He was right.

 And I hated that he knew.

“How do you know that?” I asked, trying for indifference but failing.

He took a step closer, the air between us shrinking. “Sweetheart,” he said softly, like the word was his own, “I want to be a good husband.”

There was a flicker of something in his eyes—control, possession, maybe both. “And for that,” he continued, his voice dipping lower, “I need to know everything about my future wife.”

His hand moved slowly, deliberately, brushing a loose strand of hair back behind my ear. The touch wasn’t tender—it was claiming.

I swallowed, feeling the heat of his presence press into my skin. “Everything?” I whispered.

His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Everything,” he confirmed, and there was no mistaking it for a promise. It was a warning.

Dorian’s fingers closed gently, but firmly, around my wrist.

 “Now,” he said, voice low and unyielding, “let’s go shopping.”

I frowned. “I don’t need anything.”

“You do.” His gaze slid over me like a silent inventory. “And if we’re going to be seen together, you’ll look the part.”

The part. My stomach twisted.

 “The part?” I asked.

“My wife.”

The word landed like a lock snapping shut. I tried to pull my hand back, but he didn’t let go—not hard, not painfully, but in a way that told me resistance was useless.

We stepped into the boutique, all soft lighting and quiet music. The clerk’s eyes widened at the sight of him, and she moved as if she’d been expecting him for years.

“Show us your newest arrivals,” he said, not sparing her a glance. His eyes were on me. Always on me

I walked between the racks, fingertips brushing fabrics, but his presence was at my back—close enough that I could feel the shift of air when he moved.

He reached past me, plucking a crimson dress from the rack. “This one.”

“I told you, I don’t—”

“You’ll wear it,” he said, voice almost tender. “For me.”

Something in the way he said it made my throat tighten. It wasn’t a request. It was a decision already made, one I had somehow agreed to without speaking.

When I took the dress from him, our fingers touched. And just for a heartbeat, I thought I saw something dangerous flicker in his eyes

—like this was not about clothing at all.

“Perfect Red,” he said.