The Million Dollar Misery

Final Notice

I don’t sleep.

I lie there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the cracks to rearrange themselves into something that makes sense. The black card is against my chest, it rises and falls with each shallow breath, it owns even that now.

Silas Vane.

The name burns.

Ten years later, and it still knows just where to hurt.

I flatten the card against my palm, as if I could wipe it away, as if I could undo whatever twisted coincidence—or cruel design—put his name at the edge of my life. That's what this is like. An ending.

Morning is slow; it stretches out like it doesn't want to touch anything here. My phone rings with a jolt against the night table. I grab it too quickly, as if I've been waiting for this.

Unknown Number.

Of course.

“Yes?”

“Miss Vane.” The same smooth voice. Controlled. Untouchable. We hope you received your invitation.

Invitation. The word almost makes me laugh.

“I got it.”

“And you know how important it is to be in class.”

“You told me that it was required.”

A pause. No hesitation—calculation. “Good, this will be your last notice.”

Final. The word is heavy, deep and unavoidable. What if I don't go?

No anger. No threat. Just certainty. “Then the collection process proceeds without alternative arrangements.”

Collection.

Not payment. Not resolution. Collection. I look around the apartment, the empty shelves, the half-packed bag, the life that's slipping away. “There won’t be anything left to collect.”

“You never know what you can get for your money.”

A cold shiver runs down my spine.

Another pause. Longer this time. “No. But you are someone who signed agreements.”

The truth always comes to rest where it should. “I’ll be there.” “Good.”

The line goes dead.

The silence returns, stronger than ever. I look at myself in the black screen. I don't know her very well. She looks tired. Cornered. She's already half out of the way.

My eyes drop to the card again.

Silas Vane.

Memories creep in unobtrusively, as if they've been waiting for this moment. A laugh. Warm hands. How he used to look at me as if I were the only one who made sense in a world that didn't.

I close my eyes.

He's no longer that kind of guy.

No one turns into a man like that, the kind that can buy somebody without hesitation, without losing something.

Or perhaps he didn't lose anything.

Perhaps I was the only one who broke.

I push myself up, forcing movement into my body. It's not safe to stand still. Like if I stop, I won’t start again.

The apartment looks smaller in the daylight. More honest. There is nothing here to stay for.

I walk around the room, filling up the rest of the space. Clothes. Papers. Fragments of a life that seem senseless. If you don't know who you'll be tomorrow, what do you take?

My hand hovers over a box in the corner.

I shouldn’t.

I open it anyway.

All the inside is as it was when I left. Letters. Photos. Pieces of another life, another life.

I can't help myself from touching a picture.

Two people. Younger. Smiling as if the world hadn't had the chance to ruin them yet.

Him.

Me.

Silas.

My chest tightens up almost instantly, and it hurts. I turn the picture over and push it back as if it had burned me.

It was a different time.

Another version of us.

He doesn't remember me as I remember him.

If he did… he wouldn't have bought me.

The thought lingers. Darker this time.

What if he does remember?

What if that's what he did?

There is a knock at the door.

Louder this time. Not patient. Not polite.

I turn my head to the door.

They’re back.

Too soon.

When I cross the room, my pulse goes up. Each step is more pointed, more compact. I open the door, and it's not the same man.

This is a stand-alone.

Different.

Darker.

His suit is as sharp as costly, but there's nothing polished about him. No practised smile. No careful tone. Just presence.

“Miss Vane.”

I told you I would be there.”

“Not here to confirm attendance.”

There's a change in me. “Then why are you here?”

His eyes sweep over me, then back to the apartment, and then back to me. “To make sure you know what you're getting yourself into.”

Cold creeps down my chest. “What is that, anyway?”

He takes something smaller out of his coat. A photograph.

He holds it out.

I don’t want to take it. I already know I won’t like what I see.

My hand still moves, though.

When I see it, all my senses go numb.

It’s recent. Clear.

Unmistakable.

The man stands in the middle, surrounded by glass and steel, the city behind him as if it were his own. Sharp suit. Controlled expression. Eyes that do not water for anything.

I know that face.

Even now.

Even after everything.

Silas.

But it's not only him that takes the breath away from my lungs.

It’s what he’s holding.

For in his hand…

…is the same black card I have in my hand.

And written under his name—

so subtle that it blends into the ink—

It is a single word.

Owner.