The Offer
1185 Words
“Ms. Montgomery, we need to talk.”
The words slammed through the stillness like a gavel. Savannah froze mid-sip, the mug hovering near her lips, coffee gone cold hours ago. Outside, morning sunlight slipped through the blinds, slicing the kitchen into stripes of gold and shadow. The voice on her porch was calm, official, and carried the kind of weight that only delivered bad news.
Her heart gave one hard kick.
Another knock, sharper, harder.
She set the mug down, wiped her palms against her jeans, and forced herself toward the door. Everything in her body wanted to hide, but hiding never stopped the world from collapsing. She caught her reflection in the hallway mirror, eyes ringed with exhaustion, hair half-pulled into a bun that had given up hours ago. She looked like a woman one step away from breaking.
The knock came again.
Savannah turned the handle.
A man in a perfectly pressed gray suit stood on her porch, clipboard in one hand, an envelope in the other. His face was carved into that neutral expression people wear when they’ve learned to ignore pleading.
“Ms. Montgomery?” His tone was businesslike, detached.
“Yes?” Her voice barely cleared her throat.
“I’m Richard Avery, from Sterling & Blackwell Bank.” He extended the envelope. “I’m here regarding your property on Maple Drive.”
Her stomach hollowed. “Regarding it… how?”
Avery’s eyes flicked to his clipboard. “A notice of foreclosure. Effective immediately unless the arrears are settled within seven days.”
Seven days. The words didn’t sound real; they landed like a slap.
Savannah took the envelope. It felt heavier than paper should. She stared at her name printed in black ink, each letter a verdict.
“There must be some mistake,” she managed. “I’ve been sending payments.”
He shook his head once. “Partial payments. Not enough to stop the action.” He recited figures she could barely process, numbers that might as well have been in another language.
Her throat closed. She thought of her father’s hospital bills, the endless prescriptions, the phone calls from creditors that she muted but never blocked. Her salary as a freelance designer barely covered groceries, let alone the mortgage.
“Please,” she said softly. “There has to be something else I can do.”
Avery finally met her eyes. For a heartbeat she thought she saw sympathy, then it vanished. “Pay the balance in full or contact the bank’s legal department. That’s all I can offer.” He adjusted his tie, already turning away. “You have seven days. I’d act quickly.”
The click of his shoes faded down the walkway, leaving silence behind. Savannah stood there, envelope trembling in her hands, watching as he disappeared into his black sedan. When the car door shut, it sounded like the lid of a coffin.
Her knees buckled before she caught herself against the doorframe. The air in the small house felt thin. This house was all she had left of her mother, every faded photograph on the wall, every scratch on the wooden banister. It had been her safe place. Now it was being taken from her one sheet of paper at a time.
She ripped the envelope open. Legal language spilled out, sterile and merciless. Final notice. Seven days. Amount due: an impossible figure.
A sob rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back. Crying wouldn’t stop anything. She pressed a hand over her eyes, forcing herself to breathe through the panic clawing at her chest.
Seven days.
How do you fix a life in seven days?
The kitchen clock ticked like a countdown. She thought of her father at the nursing facility, still smiling at her like she could solve anything. She’d promised him she would.
Her phone buzzed, making her flinch. A message lit the screen, Isabella: Coffee later? You owe me gossip.
Savannah stared at the text until her vision blurred. She typed back automatically: Sure. I’ll text you. Then set the phone facedown on the counter.
She couldn’t tell Bella. Not yet. Not until she had a plan.
But what plan? There was no magic paycheck coming, no miracle client. Every credit card maxed, every account nearly empty. She rubbed at her temples, trying to think. There had to be something, someone, she could turn to.
Her gaze drifted toward the envelope again. Sterling & Blackwell. She remembered seeing the name before, on the news, attached to a story about a ruthless corporate takeover. Sterling Enterprises had been involved in the deal. Same Sterling? Same empire?
A strange chill crept up her spine.
Savannah sank into the kitchen chair, mind spiraling. Somewhere in the city, a man in a suit was probably already planning who would buy her house when it went under the hammer. To him, she was just another unpaid line item. Nothing personal. Nothing human.
Her phone buzzed again, this time with a new number. Unknown caller.
She hesitated, then answered. “Hello?”
“Ms. Savannah Montgomery?” The voice was crisp, male, authoritative. “My name is Grayson Holt. I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Jackson Sterling.”
Her pulse stumbled. “I think you have the wrong number.”
“I don’t believe I do,” he replied smoothly. “Mr. Sterling has reviewed your file. He’d like to discuss an opportunity that could resolve your financial difficulties.”
“What file?” she demanded, standing so fast the chair scraped against the floor. “How do you even know who I am?”
“You’ll find Mr. Sterling well-informed,” Grayson said, unbothered. “He’s aware of your pending foreclosure with our subsidiary, Sterling & Blackwell. He believes we can help each other.”
Savannah’s hand tightened around the phone. “Help? Is this some kind of scam?”
“It’s quite legitimate. Mr. Sterling prefers to discuss sensitive matters in person. He’s offering you a meeting this afternoon at three, if you’re willing.”
Her mind raced. A stranger connected to the very bank threatening to take her home was now calling with “an opportunity”? Every instinct screamed no. Yet, seven days. Seven days before everything vanished.
She forced her voice steady. “Where?”
“Sterling Tower, downtown St. Louis. The thirty-ninth floor. Ask for me at reception.”
“And if I don’t come?”
A small pause. “Then the foreclosure proceeds as scheduled. Good day, Ms. Montgomery.”
The line went dead.
Savannah stared at the phone like it had burned her. Outside, the sun had shifted, casting long shadows through the blinds. Her pulse drummed in her ears. Whoever this Jackson Sterling was, he had power, enough to make a bank’s lawyer sound like a messenger from fate.
She drew a slow breath, then another, and whispered to herself, “What choice do I have?”
The house answered with silence. Only the clock kept ticking, counting down to a meeting that could change everything, or destroy what little she had left.
- Writer
