The Debt between us

Chapter 10

I wake to the sound of my phone buzzing on the nightstand. It’s not a text from the Whitmore house. It’s the shop.

“Xavi,” Mr. Calder’s voice crackles through the speaker, “we got a rush job. Engine seized, owner panicking.”

I groan, rolling out of bed. Sleep barely reached me anyway. The tension in the Whitmore house has made everything else sharper, heavier, like gravity is a little stronger today.

By the time I reach the shop, the sun is climbing, painting the streets gold and warm. I like the shop. I like the smell of oil, metal, and grease. The hum of machines and the occasional curse under a mechanic’s breath. It’s messy. It’s predictable. And right now, predictable feels like sanity.

The rush job is brutal. Engine practically welded itself shut, and the owner is hovering, sweating, asking the same questions over and over. I work fast, focused, fingers moving with muscle memory. Every time my mind drifts to the Whitmore house, I force it back. The missing items. Zarah’s green eyes. The way she watches without touching. The way her presence presses down even when she isn’t physically here.

By noon, the engine is done. Owner drives off, waving, oblivious to the tension that lingers around me like a second skin.

I finally eat something, reheated leftovers on a worn plate, sitting at the counter. Maya texts me from school. Mom calls, asking if I can help with groceries later. My life outside the Whitmore house exists, messy and real. I try to remind myself of that.

By three, I drive back to the estate. Even on the way, tension coils tight. Every stoplight, every corner, feels like it could contain a trap. The house looms as I turn down the street, polished edges catching sunlight, manicured lawns gleaming. Perfect. Intimidating. Unforgiving.

I step inside, greeted by muted whispers of staff. Something is off. I can feel it in the air.

I start on routine fixes in the west wing. Nothing extraordinary. Just lights, wiring, minor repairs. But the staff’s behavior has changed. Eyes flick toward me, then away. Pauses in conversation when I enter a room. The undercurrent of suspicion is no longer subtle. It scratches at my skin.

Hours pass like this, until a sound stops me—a soft shuffle in the supply hallway. Not Zarah. Someone else. Too careful. Too quiet.

I creep toward the sound, senses taut. There, by the storage closet, a young staff member fumbles with a small package. Papers spill to the floor. Heart in my throat, I step forward.

“Stop.” My voice is low, firm.

They whirl, eyes wide.

And then Zarah appears. She is a ghost and a storm all at once. Green eyes blazing, hair glowing at the ombre tips from the sunlight streaming in, arms crossed. She doesn’t move toward the staff member. She doesn’t have to. Every inch of her presence dominates the hallway.

“You understand consequences, don’t you?” Her voice is calm, low, but every word sharp.

The staff member stammers. I notice her glance flick to me. Evaluating. Not judgmental. Not warm. Just aware.

I kneel, gathering papers carefully, hands blackened, fingers sticky. The staff member’s eyes flick to me, panic evident. I realize they see me as a barrier, maybe even an ally, maybe a threat.

Zarah steps closer, authoritative. “Fix this. Quietly. No one else needs to know. Except me.”

Then she turns to leave, pausing briefly to meet my gaze. Something passes in that moment. A weight. A measure. Recognition. Approval. Or perhaps curiosity.

I return to work, heart still hammering, mind racing. The house feels alive with tension, suspicion, and invisible lines drawn between us.

By evening, I leave. Streets quieter now, city settling into night. My apartment is the same. Mom asleep, Jay curled up in a chair, Maya still out.

I eat quietly, coffee strong, my mind replaying every gesture, every glance. The missing items, the staff member’s panic, Zarah’s presence—it all presses down.

The envelope. The second package. The invisible rules she imposes without speaking.

I realize I am caught in something bigger. Something dangerous. Something I cannot escape.

And yet, for the first time, I understand: maybe I don’t want to escape.

Because in the Whitmore house, everything is measured, controlled, and sharp. And for the first time, I feel alive in the middle of it.

Standing still is not an option. Watching, learning, moving carefully—that is all I can do.

But the pull of her presence, even in absence, is growing stronger. And I am beginning to realize that I may be willing to risk more than I should.