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Chapter 3: Statement Of Service Rendered
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16.04.2026 02:13:52*POV: Aliyah*
I didn’t go to class. I went to the bursar’s office. NYU’s financial hold notice was still in my inbox. $259,843. Past due. Graduation hold. No diploma until paid. I’d memorized the number. You memorize the thing that’s going to end you. The woman at the desk was named Mrs. Chen. She’d seen me cry in that chair three times since September. Today she just looked tired. “Aliyah,” she said. “The hold is still—” “I know. I just… can I check if there’s any update? Any scholarships posted?” She typed. Clicked. Her eyebrows went up. “That’s… unusual.” “What?” “Your balance. It’s zero.” I stared at her. “What?” “Paid in full. This morning. 8:47 AM. Anonymous wire transfer. $259,843. Note says ‘Tuition balance. Services rendered.’” The room did a slow tilt. _Services rendered._ “Who paid it?” “Anonymous. The wire came from a Cayman holding account. That’s all I have.” I didn’t sit. If I sat, I’d fall. _Services rendered._ I hadn’t rendered services. I’d held a scarf to a wound. That wasn’t $259,843. That wasn’t college tuition. That was— Who? I was still confused when my phone buzzed. Unknown number. Same one. D. _Name your price._ 8:48 AM One minute after the payment cleared. Then I knew. D. Dominic. Anonymous wasn’t anonymous anymore. _Services rendered_ meant the alley. Meant my hands. Meant his blood. Mrs. Chen was watching me. “Are you alright? You’re very pale.” “I’m fine,” I lied. “Can I get a receipt? Proof of payment?” She printed it. NYU letterhead. PAID IN FULL. $259,843.00. DATE: 04/22/2026. MEMO: Tuition balance. Services rendered. I took it. My hands shook. “Aliyah,” Mrs. Chen said. “If someone is… helping you… be careful. Gifts like this have strings.” I nodded. Didn’t trust my voice. I left the bursar’s office and made it to the bathroom before my knees gave out. I locked the stall door and put my head between my knees and tried to breathe. He paid my tuition. He knew I was at NYU. He knew the exact amount. He knew I was broke. How? I didn’t text back. I shoved the phone in my bag like it was hot. I had class. Advanced Reporting with Professor Diaz. I went. Sat in the back. Took notes I wouldn’t remember. My handwriting was all wrong. Too tight. Like I was holding the pen so hard it might snap. At 11:32 AM, my phone buzzed again. _You saw CNN. I’m out of critical. Not dying. —D_ I didn’t answer. At 1:07 PM: _Check your email. Personal, not school._ I didn’t. At 2:15 PM: _Aliyah. Answer me._ I turned my phone off. Justin was waiting outside the Journalism building at 3:00 PM. Jeans. Black T-shirt. Still looked like trouble. He saw me and pushed off the wall. “We need to talk.” “No,” I said. Walked past him. He fell into step. “He paid your tuition, didn’t he?” I stopped. “How do you know that?” “Because he told me. Made the first call at 7:03 AM. To me. Said an angel with a cashmere scarf saved him. Said her name is Aliyah. Said she goes to NYU.” My blood went cold. “CNN said critical.” “CNN lies. He was out of surgery at 4 AM. Awake at 6. Talking at 7. Called me first.” “Not Rosie?” Justin’s jaw worked. “Rosie doesn’t take his calls. Hasn’t in two years. That’s not my story.” “Then what is?” “Directive 9.1. Family code. Life debt. You save a Blackwood, the Blackwood pays. In full. No negotiation. No refusal.” “I didn’t save him for money.” “Doesn’t matter why, or what. Now you’re in the ledger.” “What ledger?” “His.” Justin stepped closer. “Listen to me, Angel. You take the money, you’re his. You don’t take it, you’re still his. Because he doesn’t lose people after he decides they’re his.” “I’m not his.” “You used your dad’s scarf. He described it. Cashmere. Cream. Said it smelled like vanilla and old books. Said you pressed it to his ribs and told him he’ll be better.” I took a step back. “He told you that?” “He told me everything. Wants your schedule, your coffee order, which side of the bed you sleep on.” “Stop.” “I’m trying to. Because I know how this ends. He gets in. He doesn’t get out.” “Rosie said he’s her brother.” “He is. She hates him. Loves him. Hasn’t spoken to him in two years because loving him gets people killed.” My phone was off. In my bag. But I felt it buzz anyway. Phantom. Or memory. _Name your price._ “Aliyah,” Justin said. “Whatever he offers you, say no. Whatever he asks, say no.” “My tuition is paid,” I said. “$259,843. This morning. Note said ‘Services rendered.’” Justin closed his eyes. “Then it’s too late.” “For what?” “For you to not be his.” He turned and walked away. Didn’t look back. I stood there until my phone actually buzzed. I turned it on. 4:06 PM. One text. _4:07 PM: Brew & Bloom. Corner table. We need to talk. —D_ I looked at the time. 4:06. I had one minute. I didn’t go. I went home. Rosie wasn’t there. Shift at the hospital. I sat at the kitchen table and opened my laptop. Personal email. One unread. No subject. Sender: directive91@blackwoodholdings.com Attachment: STATEMENT OF SERVICES h**p://RENDERED.p*f I clicked it. It was an invoice. Blackwood Holdings letterhead. SERVICES RENDERED: Emergency medical intervention. Life-saving measures. 04/21/2026. 10:15 PM. Alley adjacent Brew & Bloom. PROVIDER: Aliyah Rhodes. COMPENSATION: Tuition balance paid in full. $259,843.00. STATUS: DEBT CLEARED. NOTE: Directive 9.1 invoked. Further compensation available upon request. Name your price. At the bottom, hand-signed. D. Blackwood. Under that, typed: _P.S. Keep the scarf. I’ll buy you a new one._ I closed the laptop. My phone buzzed. 4:07 PM. _You’re not at Brew. Come to St. Michael’s. Room 901. Alone. —D_
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