The Debt between us

Chapter 13

The morning hits differently this time. The sun spills gold across the Whitmore driveway, but there’s a chill in the air that cuts deeper than usual. I notice it the moment I step out of my truck. My hands tighten on the steering wheel, muscles still sore from the last week of double shifts—Whitmore house and the shop.

Inside, something feels wrong immediately. The staff move faster than normal, whispering in corners, their glances toward me sharp and worried. The tension is almost tangible, like static electricity crawling under my skin.

I head straight for the west wing, tools in hand, checklist running through my mind. The package from yesterday was returned properly. But now there’s a new problem. One of the smaller security devices is missing, and suspicion has started to converge directly on me.

I freeze as I hear the sound of hurried footsteps behind me. Not a staff member. Not someone I recognize. Heart thumping, I glance around—nothing. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement near the storage corridor.

And she’s there. Zarah. Green eyes wide, though there’s a flicker of something different—something almost like concern, though she tries to mask it immediately. Her ombre hair shifts as she steps closer, precise and controlled, but her posture isn’t as rigid as usual. Her shoulders tilt slightly forward, and for a brief moment, I see her humanity beneath the armor.

“Xavi,” she says, voice low, a hint of tension breaking through the usual calm authority. “I need to speak with you.”

I nod, following her toward a small sitting room near the east wing. She closes the door behind us, and the sound of her heels clicking is swallowed by the thick carpet.

She stands by the window, sunlight hitting her hair just right, eyes scanning me with something I haven’t seen before. Concern. Frustration. Uncertainty.

“Someone is trying to frame you,” she admits, voice quieter than usual. Her fingers curl slightly around the edge of the window sill. There’s a tremor in her jaw that she almost immediately hides.

I blink. “What do you mean?”

She steps closer, and the air between us suddenly feels tighter. Closer. She doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t need to. Her presence is enough to press against my chest.

“There’s evidence planted—security footage manipulated. A device missing from the west wing. And every trace points to you,” she says, green eyes locked on mine. Then, almost imperceptibly, she looks away. Her jaw relaxes, shoulders dip slightly, and I catch the faintest sigh, a human moment in the middle of her control.

I run a hand over my face, trying to steady my pulse. “I didn’t take anything. I swear.”

Her gaze snaps back to me. For a fraction of a second, it softens. She studies my expression, the way my shoulders stiffen, the tension in my jaw. And in that moment, I see the edge of doubt, a c***k in the armor she always wears.

“You better not be lying,” she says, though her voice lacks the bite it usually carries. There’s worry beneath it now, and I can’t ignore it.

I nod firmly. “I’m not. Someone’s trying to set me up.”

She takes a step closer, and I notice how the room feels smaller suddenly. The sunlight catches the curve of her neck, the soft line of her cheek, the faint glint in her eyes. I feel heat creep up my spine, a tension I can’t name fully yet.

“I should call security, but I…” She hesitates, then shakes her head slightly. Her hands drop to her sides. “I’ll handle it differently. Quietly. If someone is trying to frame you, I don’t want this getting out yet. It could be bigger than we think.”

Her voice drops lower. Softer. Almost human. And I notice the way she bites the inside of her cheek, a small, private gesture that reveals her tension, her concern, maybe even her fear.

I step closer, careful, careful not to break the invisible line she draws. “I’ll find out who did this. I can fix it.”

She studies me again. I notice her breathing slightly uneven, hands twisting at her sides. And then—finally—she allows a small, almost imperceptible nod. Not approval. Not softness. But acknowledgment. Recognition. That I am here, capable, standing in her presence.

The sound of the distant staff moving echoes through the halls. She glances toward the door, then back at me. Her posture straightens, jaw tightens again, control snapping back in place.

“I’ll be watching,” she says. “Not just for the work. For you. Be careful, Xavi.”

Something in her voice makes the air between us taut. Not fear. Not desire fully yet. But a pull. Something dangerous. Something I can’t ignore.

I nod, feeling the weight of the moment. My pulse is high, every muscle coiled, every nerve aware. “I will.”

She turns, heels clicking softly, leaving me alone in the sitting room. I run a hand down my face, breathing heavy. The tension doesn’t leave. It lingers, a physical thing pressing against my chest.

Outside, the sunset is turning the sky bruised purple and orange. Inside, the house hums with activity, staff moving like ghosts. But the moment lingers. The memory of her concern, the way she allowed herself a flicker of humanity, presses into me.

I realize, as I leave the room, that the stakes are higher than I thought. Someone wants me out. Someone wants to ruin me. And Zarah—impossibly, infuriatingly, tantalizingly—is right there, balancing control and concern in ways I don’t fully understand yet.

And maybe, just maybe, I notice her a little too much.