CHAPTER 2 : THE WEIGHT OF DUTY

The subway ride home is a haze, I felt like I was looking through the world from a stained mirror made worse by the weight of Noah Thorne’s contract pressing around me. My bag digs into my shoulder, that cursed envelope inside like a ticking bomb. His voice, low, cold, commanding, played in my head repeatedly: One year, Scarlett. Five million buys freedom. Freedom for who? My parents, maybe, but not me. At 26, I thought I’d be chasing my interior design dreams, design for the rich and big city people, not bartering my life to a billionaire stranger. Leaving all my dreams and plans behind, worse it's just for a year. I wouldn't want to be branded names by the social media because I knew how popular Mr. Thorne was.

I’m American, born here, but my parents had their old-world expectations, tied to our island’s roots which chained me to their dream: Lee Family Kitchen, our crumbling restaurant. I had wanted to work my way through the debt and leave my life the way I want. 

The train rattles through Brooklyn, its fluorescent lights flickering like my resolve. My reflection in the window shows a mess, dark hair tangled from the wind and hazel eyes shadowed with exhaustion. 

I made a quick stop at the restaurant where I swapped my apron for a black blouse and jeans, but I still feel like I don’t belong in Noah’s sleek, untouchable world. Blackwood Tower’s glass and chrome haunt me, so different from the chipped linoleum of our restaurant. My phone buzzes in my pocket—Mom again. I can’t face her yet, that was why I came hear instead of going home immediately. I knew she would want me to accept it without a thought. She'd prefer I agree to the proposal a d marry him, play his wife for a year and save our debt-ridden legacy. I shove the phone deeper, willing the ride to last forever.

But it doesn’t. Deciding to face my fears i took a t train home and got off the train by 7:30 p.m., the October air biting my cheeks as I trudge through Brooklyn’s familiar houses. Our apartment’s above the restaurant, a cramped two-bedroom that smells of turmeric and used building tools a neighbour had used earlier. I climb the creaky stairs, my sneakers scuffing the worn wood, and push open the door. The living room’s dim, a single lamp casting long shadows. Mom’s at the kitchen table, her dark hair streaked with gray, sorting a pile of bills with trembling hands. Dad’s in his recliner, oxygen tank hissing, his face pale but stubborn, like he’s fighting death itself. They look up, and I’m a kid again, caught in their expectations.

“Scarlett,” Mom says, her voice sharp with hope, her island accent thick. “You saw him? The Thorne man?”

I drop my bag, the contract thudding inside. “Yeah,” I say, my throat tight. “It’s worse than you said.”

Dad shifts, his breathing labored. “Tell us, Letty.” His nickname hits like a plea.

I sink into a chair, rubbing my temples. 

“Noah Thorne wants me to marry him. A contract, one year. I’d be his fake wife, smile for his business deals. He’ll clear the debt—fifty grand, plus interest—and pay me five million. Fund my design business, too.”

Mom’s eyes widen, her hands freezing on the bills. 

“Five million? Scarlett, that’s…”

“Insane,” I cut in, my voice rising. “It’s a trap, Mom. He’s a stranger, a billionaire who thinks he can buy me. I’m not some prop for his corporate games.”

Dad coughs, a rough sound that makes my chest ache. “It’s not games,” he says, voice weak but firm. “It’s survival. The restaurant, our life here, it’s all we built and it's everything we have. Everything we've done is for your future, If you do this, we’re free.”

I stand, pacing, my hands balling into fists. “Free? You’re asking me to sell my life! I’m 26, Dad. I’m building my career, my designs. I’ve been killing myself to keep this place afloat, doubles, late nights, every penny. Isn’t that enough?”

Mom stands too, her eyes blazing, hands clenched. “Enough? You think we wanted this? To beg? To take that loan?” Her voice cracks, and I see the weight of years in her face, leaving her home, starting over, pouring everything into this restaurant. “We did it for you, Scarlett. For a future. This man, he’s offering one. Security, money, a way to keep your father alive.”

Her words are a knife. I glance at Dad, his oxygen mask fogging with each shallow breath. My throat burns, tears pricking my eyes. 

“You’re guilting me,” I say, quieter now. “I’ve been fighting for you, but this? Marrying a stranger? I can’t.”

“You can,” Mom snaps, stepping closer, her hands gripping my shoulders. “In our culture, family comes first. One year, Scarlett. One year, and you’re set for life. We’re set. Don’t turn your back on us.”

I pull away, my chest heaving. “I’m not turning my back. I’ll find another way, loans, investors, anything but this.” I grab my bag, storming toward my room. “I’m done.”

“Letty!” Dad calls, but another cough cuts him off, sharp and pained. I slam my door, leaning against it, tears spilling over. The contract’s in my bag, Noah’s voice echoing: You’re a means to an end. I slide to the floor, the memory of Mom and Dad on opening day flashing, smiling, proud, with me clutching a mango lassi. I can’t let them lose it, but I can’t lose myself either.

I tossed around restless, trying to sleep but I just couldn't close my eyes and dream away. I toss all night, the contract haunting me like a ghost. Finally, before I knew it I fell asleep as the dawn shone through my window.

“Scarlett! Call 911!”

i recognised the voice as mom's but I was still so sleepy and my hearing was dull 

“Scarlett! Scarlett! It's your father, call 911”

I heard it clearly this time. Quickly putting on a shirt I made my way to the living room, heart pounding. 

Dad’s slumped in his recliner, clutching his chest, his face was twisted, eyes wide with pain. Mom’s sobbing, shaking him. “No, no, stay with me!”

“Dad!” I kneel beside him, my hands shaking as I grab my phone. His eyes meet mine, scared but warm, and I choke back a sob. “Hold on, please!” I dial, voice trembling. “Ambulance! 234 Flatbush Avenue, my dad’s having a heart attack!”

At the hospital, Mom’s crying, clutching his hand, and I’m frozen, watching the man who carried me on his shoulders now fighting for breath. The paramedics are coming, but every second feels like forever. I grip Dad’s other hand, whispering, “You’re gonna be okay,” but my heart screams otherwise.

Been a long time since I said a prayer of any kind but now I did. I prayed in my heart for a successful surgery but the situation was already bad. Al

l I had was hope, that he'd make it back in one piece.