THE DEBT COLLECTOR'S BRIDE

The rain hadn’t stopped all day. It hammered the tin awning outside my apartment like a relentless drumbeat, each drop echoing the tick of the clock on the wall. The sound was maddening, not because of the weather, but because I couldn’t stop matching it to the countdown in my head. Three days since the bakery closed. Two days until rent was due. And zero dollars left in my bank account. The bakery had been my father’s pride and my prison. When he died last year, he left me nothing but the smell of stale flour, a failing business, and a mountain of debt I didn’t even know existed until collectors started calling. Now the display cases were empty, the ovens cold, and the equipment was being sold tomorrow for a fraction of its worth. The worst part? Even after everything went, I’d still owe more than I could ever repay. I sat cross-legged on my worn couch, the table in front of me littered with overdue notices, half-filled forms, and a calculator that had become my enemy. My only light came from a cheap candle burning in a chipped mug, the power company had sent their “final warning” notice that morning. My stomach knotted in that familiar, dull ache of hunger. I’d skipped dinner, telling myself it would stretch my groceries, but truthfully, I’d lost my appetite weeks ago. Dread does that to you. I was halfway through scribbling another number I couldn’t pay when I heard it. Three slow, deliberate knocks. Not the frantic pounding of a neighbor in trouble. Not the polite tap of a delivery man. These were the kind of knocks that made your spine stiffen and your lungs forget how to work. The pen slid from my fingers. The second round of knocks came softer, but somehow heavier — the sound of someone who knew they’d be let in. Someone who didn’t have to beg. I told myself to stay quiet, to pretend I wasn’t home. But my body betrayed me, feet carrying me to the door like I was caught in some invisible pull. My hand hovered over the lock. The clock on the wall read 12:07 a.m. Nothing good ever came knocking at midnight. I opened it anyway. And there he was. Matteo Cruz. Six foot something, rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead, a black suit clinging to broad shoulders that looked like they could carry a coffin without help. His jaw was carved and unyielding, his mouth the kind that looked like it belonged in sinful dreams, not nightmares. But his eyes… God, his eyes. Cold, precise, the kind of brown that could be warm if it wanted, but tonight, they were as sharp and unforgiving as a bullet. “Isla Vance?” His voice was deep enough to vibrate in my chest. I nodded before I even thought to lie. He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Water dripped from his coat onto my floor, but I couldn’t seem to move, let alone tell him to leave. His gaze swept the apartment, the single candle, the stacks of bills, the peeling wallpaper. It was the look of a man who could read a person’s entire life in seconds, and what he saw didn’t impress him. He lingered on the framed photo beside the couch but didn’t comment. When he turned back to me, he was closer, close enough that I could smell the rain on him, the faint trace of expensive cologne beneath it. “You know why I’m here,” he said, voice like a low growl. I swallowed. “I… think you have the wrong—” “No.” The word cut through mine like a blade. “Your father owed my employer two hundred and forty-eight thousand dollars. He’s gone. That debt is yours now.” The air between us tightened. I could hear the rain again, pounding against the glass like it was trying to warn me. “I… I can’t—” “You have forty-eight hours, sweetheart.” He leaned in, one hand braced against the doorframe beside my head. The heat of him was suffocating, and every instinct in me screamed to take a step back, but I didn’t move. “After that,” he continued, “your debt won’t be the only thing I collect.” Something inside me wanted to shrink, but another part, the part that had survived funeral after funeral in this family locked my knees in place. “Is that a threat?” I asked, my voice sharper than I felt. His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “It’s a promise.” His gaze flicked down briefly, lingering on the faint scar along my wrist. He didn’t comment, but the way his eyes narrowed made my skin prickle. Then he stepped back, pulling the door open. Rain spilled in, damp and cold, and for a heartbeat, I thought he’d leave without another word. But as he stepped into the hallway, he paused. “By the way…” His tone softened, just a fraction. “Your sister said you were stubborn.” The words hit me like a slap. “You knew my sister?” A shadow crossed his face. “Get the money, Isla.” And then he was gone, swallowed by the storm. I shut the door and locked it twice, my hands shaking. The moment the bolt slid into place, I lunged for the picture frame on the table, the one he’d looked at when he came in. It was my favorite photo of Mia, taken three weeks before she died. She was laughing, eyes bright, her arm looped around a man I had never met. Until tonight. It was Matteo Cruz. I sank to the couch, the picture frame clutched so tightly my fingers ached. Mia had been everything I wasn’t — fearless, magnetic, alive. And then, just like that, she was gone. The police had called it an accident. The whispers at her funeral had called it something else entirely. “They say her fiancé was mafia.” “I heard he killed her himself.” “No, no… it was a hit gone wrong.” I’d shut it all out, buried the rumors along with my grief. Now the rumors had just walked into my apartment and given me forty-eight hours to save my life. The candle flickered, throwing shadows over Matteo’s face in the photograph. His arm was around her, hand resting possessively at her waist, the same way he’d boxed me in against the doorframe tonight. Even in the picture, there was danger in his eyes and something else I couldn’t name. My throat tightened. Was this a coincidence? Some cruel twist of fate? Or had he come here for more than just the money? The rain outside swelled into a roar, drowning out the sound of my own ragged breathing. I set the picture down and pressed my hands to my face, trying to think past the storm inside my head. The truth was, I didn’t have the money. I didn’t have anything. But I had forty-eight hours. And maybe… just maybe… I had a reason to find out who Matteo Cruz really was the man who had loved my sister, the man who might have killed her, and the man who now held my future in his hands. Somewhere deep down, beneath the fear, a dangerous curiosity stirred.