The Debt between us

Chapter 4

Reporting directly to Zarah Whitmore turns out to mean waiting.

Not in an office. Not in a formal sitting room. In the glass-walled study that overlooks the back lawn, where the grass is cut in straight lines and nothing grows unless it is allowed to. I stand there for almost ten minutes before she comes in, tablet in hand, attention split between me and whatever problem exists on her screen.

She does not apologize for the delay.

“You grew up fixing things,” she says, eyes still down.

“Yes.”

“Not formally trained.”

“Trained enough.”

That earns me a glance. Brief. Assessing. Her eyes are green, clearer up close. Not soft. Alert. Like they are always working ahead of her mouth.

“I had the staff background checks pulled,” she continues. “Nothing unusual.”

“So you’re expanding the net,” I say.

“I am narrowing it,” she corrects. “You were closest.”

I nod once. “Then ask what you need to ask.”

She sets the tablet down and finally gives me her full attention. There is something deliberate in the way she stands. Balanced. Like she does not waste energy on unnecessary movement.

“You know my family,” she says.

“Everyone does,” I reply. “At least the public version.”

“And what is that?”

I shrug. “Real estate. Private investments. A name that opens doors.”

“And closes others,” she adds quietly.

That surprises me. Not the statement. The admission.

“You know my father is sick,” she continues.

“I know he does not appear anymore.”

“That is intentional.” She pauses. “The envelope contained power of attorney documents. Updated ones.”

That lands. Heavy.

“Then whoever took it did not want money,” I say slowly.

“No,” she agrees. “They wanted leverage.”

I think of the staff. Of family members who come and go. Of business partners with polished smiles. Of a house full of people who look at her and see access.

“I would not risk my family for that,” I say.

Her gaze does not soften, but it shifts. Less accusatory. More thoughtful.

“I believe you believe that,” she says.

It is not trust. But it is closer than before.

She dismisses me after that, assigning work that keeps me moving through the property but away from anything sensitive. Maintenance. Electrical. Outdoor repairs. Things that let her watch without hovering.

It gives me space.

I take it.

Days pass. A rhythm forms. Mornings at the shop. Afternoons at the Whitmore house. Evenings back home with Maya complaining about exams and stealing food off my plate.

Zarah is not always around. That matters more than I expected. Her absence leaves a kind of pressure behind, like the echo of a sound that has not fully faded.

When she is there, she is working. On calls. In meetings. Walking briskly through halls with purpose written into her posture. I see her from a distance more than up close.

But I notice things anyway.

The way she loosens her hair when she thinks no one is watching. The faint crease between her brows when she reads something she does not like. The fact that she drinks her coffee black and barely touches it once it cools.

One afternoon, I am in the back courtyard replacing a damaged fixture when she comes out mid-call. She does not see me at first. She is arguing quietly, voice low but firm.

“No,” she says. “That is not acceptable. You do not push timelines without my approval.”

She listens. Jaw tightens.

“Yes, I understand the implications,” she continues. “That does not change the answer.”

She ends the call and exhales slowly, one hand braced against the stone railing. For a second, the control slips. Not much. Just enough.

I look away before she notices me watching.

But she does.

“How long have you been there?” she asks.

“Long enough to fix the wiring,” I say.

She nods, regaining composure like it was never gone. “Good.”

Then, after a beat, “What do you think people assume about me?”

The question catches me off guard.

“That you always win,” I answer honestly.

She studies me, then lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh. Almost.

“That is what they expect,” she says. “Winning does not mean enjoying it.”

She turns and goes back inside before I can respond.

I stand there longer than necessary, hands resting on my hips, staring at the door she disappeared through.

For the first time, I realize something else is missing.

Not from the safe.

From her.

And whatever it is, she is carrying it alone.