Eight Years Away From Xander Black

The Debt

The rain in Manhattan didn't wash things clean; it only turned the city into a grey, blurred reflection of itself.

Rosalie Thorne stood on the sidewalk, with her cheap umbrella shivering in the wind, and staring at the flashing red ticker on the digital billboard across the street.

THORNE GLOBAL: BANKRUPTCY FILED. CEO ARTHUR THORNE UNDER INVESTIGATION.

The words felt like a physical blow because just a month ago, that name was a golden ticket.

Now, it was a death sentence and her father’s face was plastered across every tabloid as the "Madoff of the Millennial Era," and his company—the empire she was supposed to inherit—was being picked apart by vultures.

"It’s over, Rosalie," her father had whispered this morning, his voice sounding thin and brittle.

He looked like a ghost of the man who once ruled Wall Street. "They’ve taken everything. The house, the cars... even your trust fund. I’m going to prison. Unless..."

"Unless what, Dad?" she had asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.

He hadn't answered but he had only handed her a thick, cream-colored envelope with no return address.

Inside was a single card with an address on the 80th floor of the Black Tower and a time: 4:00 PM Sharp.

Now, standing in the lobby of that very tower, Rosalie felt the weight of her family's sins pressing down on her.

The building was a monolith of obsidian glass and cold ego. It didn't belong to the old-money world of her father; it belonged to the new, ruthless sharks who had circled their sinking ship.

"Name?" the receptionist asked but didn't look up from her screen.

"Rosalie... Rosalie Thorne. I have an appointment."

The receptionist’s fingers paused over her keyboard.

And she finally looked up, her eyes scanning Rosalie’s faded trench coat with a mixture of pity and professional disdain.

"Top floor. The private elevator is to the left and he doesn't like to be kept waiting she said with furrowed brows."

He, who was he.

Her father hadn't told her who owned this building, only that they held the keys to their survival and the idea that he was a he made her heart beat in fear.

The elevator ride was silent, the kind of silence that made your ears pop and your stomach drop.

Rosalie gripped the strap of her handbag—a relic of her former life—and tried to steady her breathing.

She thought of the pile of eviction notices on her kitchen table and the mounting medical bills.

Her family was drowning, and it seemed to be that she was the only one left to be thrown overboard.

The doors chimed open on the 1st floor.

The office was an open-concept nightmare of white marble and floor-to-ceiling glass. It was freezing, the air-conditioning set to a temperature that felt clinical.

There were no family photos here, no warmth. Only power.

A stern-faced assistant gestured toward a set of heavy oak doors at the end of the hall. "He’s expecting you, Miss Thorne. Leave your umbrella here."

Rosalie walked toward the doors, her heels clicking loudly against the marble like a countdown.

She reached for the brass handle, her hand trembling so violently she had to use both to turn it.

The office inside was vast.

The lights were dimmed, casting long, predatory shadows across the room.

A massive desk sat in front of a window that overlooked the entire city, but the chair was turned away.

All she could see was the top of a dark head and the smoke from a single, expensive cigar rising into the air.

"You’re late," the voice said.

It was deep, resonant, and strangely familiar, though she couldn't place it through the filter of her own panic.

It was a voice that sounded like it was used to being obeyed without question.

"I... the subway was delayed," Rosalie managed to say, her voice cracking.

"My father said you bought our debt. He said you were the only one who could stop the indictment."

The man in the chair didn't move. "I bought your father’s debt because I enjoy owning things that are broken, Rosalie. And your family is very, very broken."

"Who are you?" she asked, taking a step closer into the dim light. "Why did you summon me here instead of my father's lawyers?"

"Because lawyers are for business," the voice purred, and she felt a shiver of pure dread crawl up her spine

"And what I have in mind for the Thorne family is... personal."

The chair began to rotate, slowly, agonizingly.

"Your father owes forty million dollars to my firm. Forty million that he doesn't have. Forty million that will buy him a life sentence in a federal pen by tomorrow morning."

Rosalie’s breath hitched. "Please. We’ll pay it back. I’ll work, I’ll sell everything—"

"You have nothing left to sell, Rosalie," the man said as the chair finally clicked into place.

He was shrouded in the shadows of the high-backed leather seat, his face still obscured, but the sheer presence of him felt like a suffocating weight in the room.

He leaned forward, the light from the desk lamp finally catching the sharp line of a jawline and the glint of eyes that burned with a cold, vengeful fire.

"Actually," he corrected himself, his voice dropping to a whisper that echoed in the hollows of her chest. "There is one thing left of value in the Thorne estate. And I intend to collect it today."

Rosalie froze. She wanted to run, but her feet were rooted to the floor. The mysterious man reached out and tapped a rhythm on the mahogany desk, a sound that mimicked a heartbeat.

"Do you know what happens to 'Golden Girls' in the real world when the gold runs out, Rosalie?

They disappear."

"What do you want from me?" she whispered, her heart hammering.

"I want exactly what you took from me eight years ago," he said. "Everything."

He didn't stand up and he didn't reveal his face fully yet.

He simply sat there, a silhouette of power and malice, watching her tremble in the center of his kingdom.

"Come closer," he commanded. "Let me see if the years of 'suffering' have made you as desperate as your father claims."

Confused, Rosalie took a staggering step forward, her eyes straining to see the face of the man who held her father's life in his hands.