A life for a debt
"Get her! Don’t let her escape!"
Shit.
I ran.
The cold Edinburgh night bit at my skin as I tore through the damp, narrow alleyways, my breath ragged. My boots splashed through puddles, but I didn’t dare slow down.
Behind me, furious shouts bounced off the stone walls. Too close.
Drunken idiots, sure. But angry, drunken idiots. And I had given them a damn good reason to be pissed.
I had picked the wrong men to scam.
It should have been easy. Flirt, drink, lift a few bills when they were not looking. I had done it a hundred times before. But tonight, luck had turned its back on me. One of them noticed too soon.
Now they wanted their money back. Or my blood.
You should had picked a different mark tonight, Vanora.
I skidded around a corner, nearly losing my footing on the slick pavement. My pulse hammered as I spotted a row of dustbins ahead.
There. Between two overflowing bins. A tight squeeze, but it would do. I dove behind one, pressing against the grimy brick wall, my heart pounding.
Their footsteps thundered past.
“She went this way!”
“Check the next alley!”
I held my breath, the stench of rotting food curling in my nose.
Seconds stretched.
My lungs burned.
Then silence.
I counted to ten. Twenty. Thirty.
Nothing.
I exhaled slowly, my breath fogging in the freezing air. Peeking around the bin, I found the street empty.
They had taken the wrong turn.
Idiots.
Still shaking, I pulled my coat tighter and stepped out, my legs unsteady. I needed a drink.
Being called the wild daughter was not an insult. It was a fact. I did what I wanted, when I wanted. No one had a say, not after my mother died.
Her death had left me and my little sister, Junie, in the hands of my father, a man who barely deserved the title. He did not just break our family, he shattered it when he took her life.
Since then, I stopped caring. About anything. About anyone.
Except Junie.
I loved her, but love was not always warmth. Sometimes, it was just survival.
I am Vanora Campbell, the eldest daughter of a once-proud Scottish family, now reduced to whispers of shame. We live in Dean Village, Edinburgh, though calling it living feels generous.
*
I perched on my usual barstool, tossing a damp strand of hair from my face. The pub was dimly lit, thick with the scent of spilled beer and cheap cologne.
Familiar. Almost comforting.
"Nora," the barman called.
"Scotch." I rubbed my temples.
He poured it slow, watching me. "Rough night?"
"You could say that."
He slid the glass across the bar. "Try not to get into too much trouble, yeah?"
I gave a dry laugh and took a sip.
Trouble and I were old friends.
Hours later, I stumbled home, the cold nipping at my cheeks. My limbs felt heavy, my head light. The streets blurred, and I let out a soft laugh at nothing in particular.
People passed, their disapproving stares burning into me. Let them judge.
Finally, home.
I stopped outside our tiny, worn-down house, eyes flicking up to Junie’s window. The light was still on. She was probably studying. She still had hope, dreams. Things I had lost years ago.
I pushed open the front door.
And froze.
The living room was not empty.
Men. Dangerous men.
My father knelt in the center of the room, hunched like a cowering rat. A bald man in a sharp black suit lounged in my favorite chair, his presence alone making the space feel smaller and suffocating.
Around him, five men stood like sentinels. One had a gun pressed to my father’s head. Beside him, a woman, his latest fling no doubt, shook, her face ghostly pale.
The bald man’s gaze slid to me. "And you are?" His voice was calm, almost amused.
Before I could answer, my father croaked, "She is my daughter. My eldest."
I snapped my head toward him, eyes blazing. "Oh, now I am your daughter?"
The bald man smirked, yellowed teeth flashing. "Did not know you had such a treasure hidden away."
I crossed my arms, forcing defiance over the fear curling in my gut. "I thought I was not your daughter, Dad. You remind me often enough."
"Shut up," the bald man snapped, his voice a whip crack.
I clenched my jaw, but the cold, metallic click of a gun silenced me.
The bald man turned back to my father. "You have sold everything. There is nothing left." His gaze swept the room with disgust.
Then my father did the unthinkable.
"Take her," he rasped.
I blinked. "What?"
"Take her," he repeated, louder this time.
A bitter laugh bubbled in my throat. "I think he is drunk." I turned toward the stairs. "Maybe give him time to sober up."
A thick wall of muscle blocked my path. My pulse skittered.
"Wait," I said, forcing a shaky laugh. "I am not his daughter."
Silence.
The bald man gave a simple nod. "Take her."
Rough hands grabbed me. I thrashed, kicking and flailing, futile.
"Junie!" I screamed as they dragged me toward the door. "Go to Aunt Sarah’s! Do not come back here!"
At the top of the stairs, Junie stood frozen, terror painted across her face. She screamed, but the door slammed shut.
*
The car ride was a nightmare.
I sat sandwiched between two goons, wrists bound with a scarf. Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.
"Please," I begged, my voice cracking. "Take the house. Take whatever you want. Just let me go."
The bald man chuckled from the front seat. "Your house is not worth the wood it is built from."
I bit back a sob, my desperation hardening into quiet rage.
The car finally stopped.
I was yanked out, stumbling onto a gravel driveway.
The mansion before me was a twisted fairytale. Grand, imposing, and lit like a fortress. Armed guards loitered in the shadows, their black suits blending into the night.
I had lived in this town my whole life. I had never known this place existed.
As we approached, I found myself staring, momentarily forgetting I had just been sold.
The towering French doors swung open. I was dragged inside, forced to walk beside that cruel, bald man.
I looked up.
And my stomach dropped.
