The Bathroom Door

The shouting started while I was sketching.

I was in my room, halfway through drawing the view from my window, when my father's voice exploded through the house.

I grabbed my sketchbook and the acceptance letter I'd been using as a bookmark. My hands were still black with charcoal. I didn't think. Just ran to the upstairs bathroom and locked myself inside.

"Fifty million, James!" The voice was unfamiliar. Sharp. Angry. "You have thirty days, or we foreclose on everything."

I pressed my ear against the door. My heart slammed against my ribs.

"I'm handling it," my father said. His voice was low. Dangerous.

"How? By gambling away another fortune?"

My fingers tightened on the acceptance letter. The paper crinkled too loudly, and I froze.

Charcoal smudged across the École des Beaux-Arts letterhead, black fingerprints staining the words "full scholarship."

Paris. I was supposed to leave for Paris in three months.

"Marcus will marry the Cross heir." My father's words cut through the door. "It's already arranged. The merger will save us."

My stomach dropped. Marcus? Married?

"James, please." My mother's voice. Thin. Shaking. "He's our son, not a bargaining chip."

"He's a Laurent. He'll do his duty."

Something slammed. I flinched back from the door. My sketchbook slid off my lap and hit the tile. The charcoal stick rolled across the floor, leaving a black streak.

I stared at the acceptance letter in my trembling hands. Three months. Just three more months, and I'd be gone. Away from this house. Away from being the spare son nobody knew what to do with.

But fifty million dollars. Foreclosure. Marriage.

I folded the letter carefully and tucked it into my back pocket. Then I unlocked the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway.

Empty. But I could still hear voices from my father's study downstairs.

I kept close to the wall. Moving quietly. The way I used to when I was younger and trying to avoid attention.

I almost made it to my room.

"Felix."

My father stood at the top of the stairs. His face was red. Blotchy. He looked at me the way he always did. Like I was a stain on expensive fabric.

Behind him, my mother twisted her hands together. Her eyes were glassy.

"Go to your room," he said. Flat. Dismissive. "This doesn't concern you."

I wanted to ask what was happening. Why were strange men in our house? What does this marriage arrangement mean?

The words stuck in my throat.

I nodded and walked past them. Head down.

Marcus was in the hallway outside my room. He leaned against the wall like it was the only thing holding him up. The smell of whiskey rolled off him in waves. His eyes were bloodshot. Hair is a mess. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Felix." He pushed off the wall and grabbed my wrist. Too tight. Almost painful. "Don't let them do this to you too, little brother."

"Do what?"

He laughed. It sounded broken. "You'll see. You'll see, and when you do, run. Get as far away from this family as you can."

Then he let go and stumbled down the hallway. One hand trailing along the wall for balance.

I stood there for a moment. My wrist throbbed where he'd grabbed it.

Then I pushed open my bedroom door.

The file folder was sitting in the middle of my bed.

Thick. Professional. The kind of thing lawyers carried in expensive briefcases.

I approached it slowly. My pulse quickened with each step.

The label on the front was printed in neat letters: "Marriage Contract: Laurent-Cross Alliance."

My hands shook as I lifted the cover. Pages and pages of legal text. Dense paragraphs full of words like "merger" "assets" and "binding agreement." I flipped through them until I reached the section with photos.

Two pictures. Side by side.

On the left was Marcus. Professional headshot. Confident smile. Everything about him screams eldest son.

On the right was I.

My photo was paper-clipped to the page. Slightly crooked. From last year's gallery showing. The one where I'd sold three paintings. I was smiling in it. Really smiling. The way I only did when I talked about art.

Someone had written my name underneath in blue ink.

Felix Laurent.

Not Marcus.

Felix.

I sank onto the bed. The folder slid from my numb fingers. Pages fanned out across the white comforter.

But I couldn't look away from those two photos. Side by side.

Like we were interchangeable.

Like I was a backup plan.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Probably my friend from the art collective. Normal things. Things that belonged to my real life. The one where I painted and dreamed about Paris and didn't think about marriage contracts or fifty million dollars in debt.

I pulled out the acceptance letter instead. Unfolded it with careful fingers.

The charcoal smudges had spread. Turning the pristine white paper into something that looked touched by too many desperate hands.

"Full scholarship," I whispered. "Starting September first."

Three months away.

The house groaned around me. Old wood settling. Or maybe the weight of secrets is becoming too heavy to bear.

Downstairs, I could still hear my father's voice. Lower now. Discussing terms with men whose names I didn't know.

I re-examined the marriage contract. At my photo. Paper-clipped to a future I'd never agreed to.

And I wondered which of us they were really planning to sacrifice.