Chapter 3 — The Deadline
1208 Words
Fleure
I've hardly slept all night.
I tossed and turned, counted the hours like counting bombs ready to explode. Aaron Valesco's face haunts every corner of my mind, his gaze, his voice, his words, everything he promises… and everything he hints at.
I thought I'd seen the worst.
But the worst isn't a twisted contract. The worst is this morning.
The letter waits for me on my desk.
Simple. White. Flawless.
The kind of envelope that never brings good news.
I recognize the bank's logo. My heart clenches before I even open it. But I do. Slowly. As if opening a wound I already know too well.
Ms. Monet,
Following our multiple unanswered requests, we inform you that the grace period regarding payment deadlines has expired.
If the situation is not regularized within seven days, the bank will initiate proceedings to seize your professional assets.
I freeze.
Seven days.
One week.
The same week Aaron gave me.
The world is either amusing itself, or conspiring.
Maëlys enters at that moment. Sees me, letter in hand, eyes vacant.
"Fleure? What's that?"
I hand it to her without a word. Her eyes scan the page, her face closes, hardens.
"s**t. They have no right to do this so fast. You requested an extension."
"I requested. I begged. But their patience died with my last payment."
I stand up, the paper trembling in my hands.
"They want everything. Our premises. Our accounts. Our equipment. Our future."
"No," she whispers. "We're not going to let them do it."
I shake my head. The weight on my shoulders becomes unbearable. My dreams, my sacrifices, every drop of sweat invested in this company… swept away by a deadline.
"I have nothing. Everything is mortgaged. I can't even borrow without collateral."
Maëlys steps closer, takes both my hands.
"We still have time. One week. We can call other investors. We can negotiate. But Fleure… you also know what that means."
I close my eyes.
I know.
Aaron.
His offer.
His damn contract.
He doesn't just want to save me. He wants to buy me. And this time, it's not paranoia: it's obvious. He knows my accounts. He knows everything. He chose this precise moment because he knew I would be on my knees.
I open my eyes again.
"He set a perfect trap. He knew the bank would strike. That's why he gave me a week. He wants me to fall… into his arms or into the void."
Maëlys grits her teeth.
"You're not falling anywhere, Fleure. You're going to choose. And you're going to win."
But at what price?
I already feel the noose tightening. I could call Aaron. Say yes. And everything would be solved, as if by magic. But that would be selling my soul.
I could also say no.
And lose everything.
The company. The office. My identity.
I sink into the sofa, hands over my face.
"How do you choose between shame and ruin?"
A silence.
Then Maëlys, calmer, colder:
"You don't choose between the two. You create a third option. You're not going to accept his offer on his terms. If you go… you go in with your own rules. You negotiate. You impose your voice."
I lift my head, slowly.
"You really think I can impose anything on Aaron Valesco?"
"I think that guy has never really seen you in action. And that's what's going to surprise him."
I stare at her. And for the first time since that damned meeting… I smile. A cold smile. A hard smile.
Yes, he wants a perfect wife? He's going to meet a lioness.
But on my terms.
And before the end of this week, it won't be him setting the rules.
It will be me.
---
The bank lobby smells of cold wax and fake smiles.
The walls are surgically white. The armchairs, pretentiously beige. Everything here breathes success without emotion. The kind of place where dreams die slowly, drowned under the weight of numbers.
I wait. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes.
Deliberately.
They want to weaken me.
I remain upright. Silent. I cross my legs slowly, check my phone without hurry. I could burn them with my glare if I had that power. But I only have my voice. My composure. My name.
"Ms. Monet?"
The receptionist smiles too politely. Her voice lacks a soul. As if she were inviting me to a morgue.
"Mr. Delmas will see you now."
I stand up. My heels echo on the floor like a sentence.
The office is vast. Too vast. That smell of leather and power floats, believing itself natural when one has forgotten where they came from.
Jean-Philippe Delmas waits for me behind his desk like a judge behind his bench.
His suit is too tight, his smile too wide.
"Ms. Monet, please, sit down."
I comply without a word. I didn't come to beg. I came to fight.
"We received your request for renegotiation. And believe me, we understand your situation. But you must understand that the bank has strict obligations to its creditors."
I stare at him, unblinking.
"I didn't come for a speech, Mr. Delmas. I came to talk about solutions."
He tilts his head slightly, plays the understanding man. Yet I see contempt gleaming in his eyes.
"Precisely. After studying your file, we noted that your company has shown a growing liability for eighteen months. Your balance sheets are fragile. Your income unstable. It would be irresponsible to extend a schedule you cannot honor."
"Irresponsible or unprofitable?"
"Let's say both usually go hand in hand," he says, smiling.
I grit my teeth. He continues, as if doing me a favor:
"There is always an option, of course. A partial recovery by a major investor. A patron. A buyout. Or a personal agreement."
I frown.
He knows.
That bastard knows.
"It's not the bank's job to suggest its clients sell their freedom," I say in an icy tone.
He straightens slightly, surprised.
"I suggested nothing, Ms. Monet. But you are an intelligent woman. And in your position, a certain… moral flexibility can be saving."
He pronounces these words with morbid pleasure. As if he could already see me falling.
I jump to my feet. My chair screeches, but I maintain control. Cold. Precise. Sword drawn.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Delmas. But you've just reminded me exactly why I will never let this empire crumble: because you expect me to fall. Because you feed on the downfall of others."
He stands up in turn, surprised by my firmness.
"Ms. Monet…"
"No. You have your answer. I'll find a solution elsewhere. And in a week, you'll regret having buried me too soon."
I spin on my heels. My heart races a thousand miles an hour. My stomach churns.
But I don't turn back.
Not in front of him.
Not today.
I step outside. The sun attacks me. The air seems too heavy. My hands tremble.
One week.
And today, I lost the bank.
I'm alone.
No. Not alone.
There's still Aaron.
Always there, like a shadow clinging to my steps.
He extended a hand to me. A deal. A pact.
A gilded trap.
And for the first time… I start to wonder if I'm still capable of refusing.
- Writer
