I Sold Myself to My Ex’s Father

Aurora’s POV

“Open the door!”

The banging grew harder. It tore me out of sleep so fast that my body was shaking before my eyes were fully open.

Someone was shouting outside, raw and impatient, like they had already decided the lock was optional.

I left the bedroom on bare feet. I did not make it far.

Wood exploded. The front door gave in with a sound so loud I ducked and clapped my hands over my ears.

Pain rang through my skull. When I looked up again, four men were inside my apartment.

They were huge. Broad shoulders. Dark jackets. Faces that did not belong in a place this small.

My ears were still ringing when one of them spoke.

“Where is that bastard? Where is Dean?”

I forced my spine straight even though my legs wanted to fold.

“Who are you? What do you want? My father is not here. Get out.”

My voice shook. I hated that they could hear it.

The man in front tipped his chin at the others. “Check the whole place. Take anything worth taking.”

They moved at once. Drawers. Cabinets. The shelf by the wall. I heard glass break. I heard something metal hit the floor.

He walked toward me. I stepped back. Then again. My shoulders found the wall.

“Where is that bastard hiding?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “My father left two years ago and I—”

“Shit.” A short laugh cut across my sentence. “So he left you with the whole debt?”

He looked at me like the idea was funny. Then his hand shot out and caught my face. Fingers dug into my cheeks.

“Let go of me!”

He did not. He leaned in close enough that I could smell smoke on his clothes.

“Listen to me carefully, little girl. The debt is eight hundred and fifty million dollars. I will be back in seven days. Make sure you pay it.”

He let go. My skin burned where he had held me.

He jerked his head toward the door and the others started to leave with whatever they had grabbed.

“What?” The word tore out of me. “Eight hundred and fifty million? How am I supposed to pay that? I didn’t know he owed that much. Please, I—”

He paused in the wreckage of my living room.

“Then give your body instead.”

I went still. The sentence sat in my chest like ice. I wrapped my arms around myself without thinking.

They laughed. All of them.

“A week,” he said. “Or be ready to take that shirt off in front of me.”

Then he was gone.

My knees gave out. I hit the floor hard and the tears came so fast I could not stop them.

Eight hundred and fifty million dollars. I worked part-time at a fast-food place. Some weeks I could not even cover my tuition.

The number did not belong in my life. It did not belong in this apartment. It did not belong to me.

A door opened down the hall. Then another. Neighbors. They had heard everything. They looked out just far enough to see me on the floor and the broken frame of my door.

No one asked if I was hurt. Their faces were not kind. One woman stared at me as if I had brought this on myself. The doors closed again, one after another.

Night stretched on.

I sat on the edge of my bed with a photograph of my mother in my hands.

She had been gone longer than my father. In the picture she was smiling like the world had never been cruel. I cried until the photo blurred. Then I picked up my phone.

I called my father first, even though I already knew what would happen. The number had been dead for two years.

No voicemail. No goodbye. He had vanished without a message and without a warning, and the line still sounded like a hole.

I called my aunt. It rang. No one picked up.

I opened the group chat. Green dots sat beside names I used to trust. They were online.

I typed anyway. I asked to borrow money. I knew how insane it sounded. I sent it anyway.

No one answered.

The screen lit up with a new message.

Callum.

“I just got home. I miss you, Rora. I love you. Always.”

My throat tightened. Asking him felt like stepping onto thin ice. People already talked. A poor girl. A rich boyfriend.

They liked that story. They liked saying I was using him.

I stared at the message until the letters stopped making sense.

I did not have another door to knock on.

I typed with fingers that still would not stay steady.

“Hey. There is something I need to tell you. Can I come to your house tomorrow morning?”

His reply came fast.

“What’s wrong, babe? Of course you can come. My door is open for you.”

I set the phone on the nightstand. I did not answer him. I was not ready to hear what he would say when the truth was sitting in the same room with us.

Outside, the broken front door let the dark in. I held my mother’s photo and waited for morning like it might change anything.