A Daughter for a Debt
996 Words
Ivy’s POV
“He can’t do this.”
I said it to the window. To the city outside. To no one in particular.
I had been standing there for twenty minutes since returning from Blackwood’s building, still in my coat, my bag dropped on the floor by the door. My hands were flat against the glass. The city moved below me, indifferent, and I kept breathing, trying to think clearly, only to run into the same wall.
Eleven million dollars. Twenty-four hours.
He could absolutely do this.
I turned from the window.
I sat at my desk and opened my laptop. I pulled up the company’s financial records, not the summary my father kept, but the full accounts. The ones only I had access to. The ones I had built myself over three years of quietly learning exactly how bad things were.
I read through them with focused, methodical attention, like I might find something I had missed before.
I didn’t.
Liquid assets: eight hundred and forty thousand dollars. Not remotely enough.
Outstanding liabilities before the Blackwood debt: two point three million. Existing revenue barely serviced them.
Property assets: the building, valued at twelve million. Mortgaged to eight million. Actual equity: four million.
The Hamptons property: three million. Clean title. Sellable. But a property sale took time. Minimum sixty days. The deadline was forty-eight hours.
I went through every option I could think of. Private lender. Bridge financing. Asset sale. Investor partnership. I ran numbers for forty minutes. Then I ran them again.
Every option needed time we didn’t have. Every single one.
I closed the laptop.
I pressed my hands over my face and sat very still in my chair.
I heard my father’s footsteps in the corridor before he reached the door.
He pushed the door open.
“Ivy.”
I knew that tone, he was about to say something he knew I wouldn't be pleased with.
“I need to tell you something.”
“If it's about Blackwood’s offer then I don’t want to hear it.”
I lowered my hands and looked at him. He stood in the doorway with his jacket still on, his tie slightly loosened, his expression carrying that familiar combination of guilt and resolve I had learned to dread.
“I spoke with Blackwood,” he said.
I was right.
I walked closer to him. “We can find an alternative Papa, we don't have to agree.”
He moved into the room and sat across from me. He didn’t look at me directly.
"There's no time, Ivy. “I already accepted the arrangement.”
The room went silent. I couldn't believe my ears.
“You agreed,” I said, my voice flat. “Without asking me.”
“I didn't need to ask you, Ivy. There was no other way. The numbers are—”
“I know the numbers.” I stood, my chair scraping back.
“I’ve known the numbers for three years. I’ve been managing them for three years. I’ve been in every meeting, fixing every deal, keeping this company running and not once have you asked me what I thought. Not once.”
My voice was rising. I could hear it, but I couldn’t stop.
“You just decide. You just arrange. You just tell me to show up somewhere, and I show up. I perform. I do what’s required. And nobody ever asks what I want.”
“This company is all I have!” he said.
“What about me?” I asked quietly. “I’m your daughter, not your company asset.”
He said nothing.
I waited.
I waited for anything, an apology, acknowledgment, something that proved he saw me as more than a resource to be used.
He stayed quiet.
He was always quiet when it mattered. His silence said more than words could ever.
“Prepare to get married,” he said. He stood, smoothing his jacket. “The engagement will be announced soon. Blackwood’s team will send the requirements.”
He walked to the door.
He stopped, and turned.
“As my daughter Ivy, it's your duty to save this company,” he said.
Then he left.
I stood behind my desk for a long time.
My legs finally gave out, and I dropped into my chair. My hands came up over my mouth as the tears broke free.
I didn’t cry loudly, I never did but my shoulders shook, my eyes burned, and it all came out in silent sobs.
I cried for ten minutes.
Then I stopped.
I took three slow breaths. I reached for the tissues on my desk and pressed them to my face. I sat up straight.
I opened my desk drawer.
I took out the grey folder with no label.
I opened it.
COUNTER PLAN.
I read everything. Page by page. Every note I had made.
Every pattern I had identified.
Everything I had been quietly building for eight months while the company crumbled and I somehow knew it would come to this.
When I finished, I closed the folder and sat there for a while.
Then I picked up my phone.
I found the number Blackwood’s assistant had sent.
I typed the number into my phone and called it.
Two rings.
“Blackwood.” His voice was low, unsurprised, like he had been expecting me.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
A pause.
“Come in tomorrow morning,” he said. “Nine o’clock.”
“I’ll be there at eight fifty-five,” I replied.
I ended the call.
I sat quietly in the dark office.
I looked at the folder on my desk.
My father thought he had traded me.
Damon Blackwood thought I was desperate.
Neither of them had any idea what I had been building.
Neither of them had any idea what was coming.
I put the folder back in the drawer and closed it.
Neither of them knew, I wasn’t the one being cornered.
- Writer
