The air in my father’s study smelled of expensive bourbon and desperate lies. It was a scent I had grown to loathe, almost as much as the heavy, silver-bound ledger sitting on his mahogany desk. You did what?" I whispered, the words feeling like shards of glass in my throat. My father, Julian Vance, couldn't look me in the eye. He stared at the window, watching the rain lash against the glass of our estate. Once, the Vance name meant something in Oakhaven. We were the "Ink" the record keepers, the information brokers of the underworld. But looking at the slump of his shoulders, I realized we were nothing more than a dying flame. The debt reached its limit, Elara, he muttered, his voice shaking. The Syndicate doesn't take IOUs anymore. They wanted collateral. Substantial collateral. I stepped forward, my hand hovering over the edge of his desk. I fought the urge to touch the wood. If I did, I would see everything his trembli
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