Chapter 2
994 Words
The next morning.
I sat at the kitchen table, holding a glass of water that had gone cold.
The bedroom door pushed open. Liam walked out in a faded white shirt, his hair deliberately messy, dark circles heavy under his eyes. He pulled out a chair and sat down across from me.
"Ivy, the investors need a final answer by noon on the eighty-thousand-euro shortfall." He rubbed his face, his voice carrying just the right note of exhaustion and vulnerability. "If I can't cover it, they'll start legal proceedings."
By the pattern of the last two times, this was the moment I'd take his hand, eyes red, and tell him not to be afraid — I'd find a way. That was usually his favorite part.
But today, I didn't move.
"I have no money left."
Liam's hands stopped mid-rub. He looked up at me.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Exactly what I said." I looked at his bare left wrist — the vintage Patek Philippe was gone. "Two years ago, I sold the beach apartment to clear your books. Six months ago, I drained the last of my mother's trust fund, sold blood at an underground clinic, and pawned the only pocket watch she left me. I can't even afford next month's rent for the flower shop. I have nothing left to pay this debt with."
Liam stared at me for a long moment. His brow slowly furrowed. A flash of genuine panic flickered in his eyes. His hands instinctively gripped the hem of his shirt. It seemed he'd never actually considered the possibility that I might let go.
But that panic was quickly buried under his aristocratic pride.
"I know you can't come up with eighty thousand." His voice turned cold, edged with anger. "But I thought you'd at least hold my hand and tell me you'd stand by me. Like you always did."
I looked at him.
So in his mind, setting up a debt trap I could never repay was just a way to watch me grovel and prove my loyalty — to feed his superior ego.
"I can't carry this anymore," I said flatly.
Liam shot up. The chair legs screeched against the wooden floor.
"So that's it? You won't even say a few words of comfort now that I'm really in trouble?" He glared down at me, his accusations growing louder. "The last two times, even when you had nothing, you'd kill yourself trying to find a way. Now you hear eighty thousand and all I get is 'no money'? You're that eager to be rid of me?"
He was trying to bully me into submission. Trying to make me show panic, reluctance.
I stood up.
"Think what you want."
My flat, emotionless reply stunned him. The long speech he'd prepared got stuck in his throat.
"Fine. Just fine." He clenched his jaw, grabbed his coat off the sofa. "I guess I was wrong about you."
He slammed the door and stormed out.
The doorframe rattled. Then silence settled back over the apartment.
I walked to the coffee table. The IOU was still lying there. I picked it up and looked at the lender's name on the fully stamped document.
The last two times, he'd used these same airtight props — plus that act of expecting me to sacrifice everything — to clean me out.
I crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it in the trash.
Then I walked into the bathroom.
On the sink sat a cheap plastic hair clip. Liam had bought it for me at a corner store for my birthday last year. He'd held me and said it was all he could afford for now, but one day he'd buy me diamonds.
I picked up the clip and dropped it in the trash. Next to it sat the matching discounted couple mugs we'd used together. Into the trash they went.
He'd been wearing a vintage watch worth enough to buy up the whole street — and gone to all that trouble buying cheap plastic things just to test how much poverty this flower girl would endure for him.
Once I was done clearing out, I pulled a small suitcase from under the bed.
I opened the closet and folded the few sweaters, pants, and jackets that were actually mine. Three years in this rental, and everything that truly belonged to me fit into ten minutes of packing.
I zipped up the suitcase, sat down at the desk, and opened my laptop.
I logged into the flower shop's backend system. While I still had access, I downloaded everything — three years of ledgers, every transaction record, all the order histories. Then I opened my personal email and sent the files as backup. This data was three years of my life. I wasn't leaving it behind for a scam.
I picked up my phone.
Opened Liam's contact. Hit block. Then the messaging app — deleted the chat, blocked him there too.
I dialed the number for the Old Street real estate agent.
"Hi, I'm the tenant at the No. 14 flower shop." I looked out at the gray sky. "I want to terminate my lease. As soon as possible."
The agent sounded surprised. "Terminate? Per the contract, you'll need to meet the landlord in person and sign the paperwork."
"Fine. Do I need to schedule an appointment?"
The agent checked his calendar. "Actually, the landlord is at the property management office behind Old Street this afternoon. You can bring your documents and a copy of the lease and head over. I'll meet you in the lobby."
"Good. See you this afternoon."
I hung up, put my ID and lease copy into my shoulder bag, and walked to the door.
I grabbed the small suitcase.
I took one last look around the cramped apartment. Then I pushed the door open and walked out. Once the lease was terminated, I wasn't coming back to this basement.
- Writer
