DEBT OF DESIRE

Chapter One: The Debt's Shadow 

The late afternoon sun slants through the cracked window of the Lee family Kitchen, painting golden streaks across the chipped linoleum counter. I’m scrubbing at work so hard my knuckles ache, sweat beading on my forehead despite the October chill creeping through the walls. My apron, stained with soy sauce and grease, clings to me like a second skin. At least it was empty here for a while as I had the opportunity to clean around. The restaurant, my parents’ dream, a tiny Southeast Asian haven in Brooklyn’s quiet corner where it smelled of lemongrass and despair. The lunch rush was a pathetic trio of customers, and now it’s just me, the hum of a dying fridge, and the weight of a debt that’s choking us.

My phone buzzes on the counter, flashing Mom. I ignore it, my jaw clenching. I know what she’ll say: another plea to keep this place alive, another reminder of the fifty-thousand-dollar loan from Thorne Industries that’s drowning us. Five years ago, we took it to save the restaurant after Dad’s heart attack. Now, with interest piling up like unread mail, it felt like a noose on my neck because I'm just a twenty-six year old Asian girl. I toss the sponge into the sink, splashing soapy water on my sneakers.

 “Damn it,” I mutter, wiping my hands on my jeans. 

My eyes catch the faded photo taped to the cash register: Mom and Dad, beaming on opening day, with six-year-old me clutching a mango lassi, grinning like the world was ours. Back when this place meant hope, not heartbreak.

The bell above the door jingles, startling me. A man in a crisp gray suit steps in, his polished loafers screaming money against the floor I just cleaned !. He’s holding a leather portfolio, his sharp gaze sweeping the empty tables before landing on me.

I straighten, brushing a loose strand of dark hair from my face.

“Miss Scarlet Lee?” His voice is all business, clipped and cold. He doesn’t wait for my nod. “I’m Gerald Crane, legal counsel for Thorne Industries. I have an urgent matter to discuss.”

My stomach twists like someone’s punched it. 

Thorne. 

We're literally owing them fifty- thousand dollars. I cross my arms, my hazel eyes narrowing. “If you’re here to collect, you’re out of luck. I sent the payment last week, every cent we had.” Just a week ago dad struck an agreement to pay by installments.

Crane’s lips twitch, not quite a smile, more like he’s amused by my defiance. “This isn’t about the collection, Miss Lee. My employer, Mr. Noah Thorne, requests your presence at his office. Tonight. Six p.m. sharp.” He slides a sleek black envelope across the counter, embossed with a silver “T” that glints under the fluorescent light.

I stare at it doubtfully. “What’s this? A summons? You people already own our souls.”

“It’s an invitation,” Crane says, unruffled. “Mr. Thorne has a… umm… a proposition that could resolve your family’s financial difficulties.”

“Proposition?” I scoff, shoving the envelope back. 

“Tell your boss I don’t do deals with vultures.” No way any man could order me for no reason 

His eyes harden, but his voice stays smooth as glass. “I suggest you reconsider. This is a one-time offer. Refusal could complicate matters, for you and your family simply show up at Blackwood at the appropriate time stated in the envelope”

He taps the envelope once, then turns and leaves, the bell jingling in his wake.

My hands shake as I rip open the envelope. Inside, a single card, heavy and expensive, with crisp black text:

“Miss Scarlet Lee, 

You are cordially invited to a private meeting with Noah Thorne at Blackwood Tower, 350 Fifth Avenue, Suite 4200, at 6:00 p.m. this evening. Your future depends on it.

Regards,

Noah Thorne, CEO”

 The words ”Private Meeting “ echoes in my head . 

Noah Thorne. The billionaire who built a tech empire by swallowing dreams like ours with cutthroat deals. . I’ve seen him on magazine covers. He had a chiseled jaw, stormy gray eyes, always in a suit that costs more than our rent, and of course, a notorious playboy too. A man who owns half of Manhattan, including our debt. 

What could he want with me? 

The clock reads 4:45 p.m. Barely an hour to get to Manhattan. Part of me wants to shred the card and burn the pieces, but Crane’s threat lingers. Complicated matters. I think of Mom’s tired eyes, Dad’s hospital bills piling up on our kitchen table. I can’t afford to say no. The least I could do is hear what he has to say. 

After cleaning I had a change of clothes. I wore a white buttoned shirt and slipped on my denim jacket and jeans, brushed my shoulder level blonde hair and applied light makeup. 

“It's always better to look good when going to places of higher status so you won't be looked down on “

  I muttered. It should motivate me more or so I thought. 

By 5:30, I’m on a packed subway, clutching my worn messenger bag, my reflection in the window showing a woman who doesn’t belong where she’s headed. I wore my best stab at “professional” clothing and the rain about to descend might worsen things. The train rattles past skyscrapers, each one mocking me with its shine.

At 5:55, I’m staring up at Blackwood Tower wondering why a family's name was Thorne yet they named their tower Blackwood, a glass giant slicing into the dusky sky. The lobby’s a cathedral of marble and chrome, security guards eyeing me like I’ve wandered into the wrong universe. I flash the card, my fingers sweaty, and they usher me into a private elevator that hums upward, my stomach lurching with every floor.

The doors slide open to a penthouse office, all glass and cold elegance. A massive desk dominates, flanked by awards and a view of Manhattan’s twinkling skyline. 

Noah Thorne stands by the window, his back to me, broad shoulders filling a navy suit that probably costs more than my life. The air feels electric, like a storm’s about to break. 

“You’re late,” he says without turning, his voice low and commanding, like he expects the world to bend.

I checked my phone: 6:02

 “Traffic,” I snap, my tone sharper than I mean. “Not all of us have private jets.”

He turns, and my breath catches. The magazines lied, he’s more than a photo. Noah Thorne, 32, is all sharp angles and raw intensity with a body built like an animé character and dark hair slightly mussed, gray eyes cutting through me like they see every secret I’ve got. A faint smirk tugs his lips, but there’s no warmth, just calculation.

“Miss Lee,” he says, gesturing to a leather chair across his desk. “Sit.”

“I’ll stand,” I shoot back, crossing my arms. “What’s this about? If you’re squeezing us for more money, we’re tapped out.”

His smirk fades. He leans against the desk, arms crossed, mirroring me. 

“I’m not here to ruin you, Scarlet. I’m here to offer a way out.”

My heart stumbles at my name in his mouth. He grabs a folder, tossing it onto the desk with a soft thud. “Your family owes Thorne Industries fifty thousand dollars, plus twenty in interest. Foreclosure’s imminent. But I have a proposal to erase that debt and then some.”

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “What kind of proposal?”

He steps closer, too close, his presence like gravity pulling me in. “A marriage. One year, purely contractual. You play my wife, attend events, smile for the cameras. In return, I will clear your debt, pay you five million dollars, and fund your little design business.”

My jaw drops, a laugh stealing its way to my chin, bitter and disbelieving. “You’re insane. Why me? You could hire a supermodel.”

His eyes rake over me, not cruel, but assessing “My board’s pushing a merger with LinCorp, a Singapore tech firm. They want stability, family values. I have to present a front that relates with their business if I'm going to get this merger. Your background, immigrant roots, hardworking, checks their boxes. It’s optics, nothing more.”

“Optics?” I spit the word. “You want a trophy wife to parade around? I’m not your puppet.”

“You’re not,” he says, voice sharpening. “You’re a means to an end. And I’m yours. Five million buys freedom, Scarlet. Think of your parents.”

My chest tightens. He knows exactly where to strike. I think of Mom’s call, Dad’s labored breathing. I couldn't even afford hospital bills and if anything happened to him I won't be able to forgive myself for it. 

“What’s the catch?” I ask, voice barely steady. “There’s always a catch.”

He slides a contract across the desk, pages thick with fine print. “No catch. Just rules. No emotional entanglements. No scandals. You live in my world, follow my lead. One year, we part ways. You get your life back, only difference is you'll be richer."

I stare at the contract, my hands trembling. The words blur: marriage… confidentiality… penalties. It’s a cage. But losing the restaurant, my parents’ dream and dad's health is worse.

“I need time,” I say, my voice a whisper.

“Until tomorrow,” Noah Thorne says, turning back to the window, dismissing me. “Don’t waste my time.”

I stumble out of the tower, the city’s noise drowning my thoughts. The contract’s in my bag, heavy as a stone. My phone buzzes—Mom. I answer, my voice cracking. “Mom, we need to talk.”

As I speak, a black SUV idles across the street,

cameras flashing from its window and I keep asking myself what does Noah Thorne really want with me?.