Under His Terms

‎“Where the hell is she?” ‎I heard Isabella scream from the top of the stairs before I even saw her. I didn’t need to ask who she meant. In this house, whenever something wasn’t done, it was always me. ‎I was kneeling beside a basket of damp laundry when she called. My back was already aching from all the scrubbing I had been doing since dawn. For a moment I thought about pretending I didn’t hear her. But that kind of mistake never ended well. ‎So I pushed myself to my feet, my fingers tightening around the worn plastic handles of the basket until the rough edges dug into my skin. ‎She was already coming down the stairs. ‎Her heels struck each step in sharp, impatient clicks. The moment her eyes landed on me, her expression twisted with irritation, like she had finally found what she had been looking for. ‎Before I could say anything, her palm cracked across my cheek. ‎The pain spread slowly. I tasted blood at the back of my mouth but kept my head lowered. Years in this house have taught me something important. ‎Silence keeps you alive, speaking will only make things worse. ‎“Why is the living room not finished?” she snapped. “I told you it had to be done before breakfast.” ‎“I’m almost done,” I said quietly. ‎“Almost?” ‎She leaned closer, her perfume strong enough to sting my nose. ‎“Mother expects this house to be spotless when the visitors arrive. If you can’t handle something this simple, what are you even good for?” ‎Aunt Marissa’s footsteps followed behind her. ‎She stopped in front of me, looking me up and down the way someone might inspect a servant. ‎“Nora,” she said, her voice tight with anxiety, “everything must be perfect today. Every room must be clean, every meal must look appetizing, we have to make it look like we are thriving.” ‎Her eyes flickered toward the front door. ‎“If they’re satisfied… maybe they’ll give us more time.” I nodded my head. ‎The debt collectors were coming today. ‎I had heard enough whispers over the past few weeks to understand that the family was drowning in something they couldn’t repay, but hearing it said out loud made it heavier. ‎And somehow, as always, the responsibility to fix it has landed on my shoulders. ‎As if spotless floors could erase a debt. ‎“What are you standing there for?” she snapped. ‎My body moved before my mind could catch up. ‎I carried the basket back to the kitchen and dropped it beside the sink. Then I started scrubbing again. ‎I cleaned until the tiles reflected the light. I wiped the counters once, then wiped them again. ‎I cooked enough food to feed a celebration no one felt like having. ‎My arms trembled and my back ached, but I didn’t slow down. ‎Isabella lingered nearby, watching me with open amusement. ‎“You’d better not embarrass us,” she sneered. ‎“If they’re unhappy, it’ll be because of you.” ‎Because of you. ‎Everything was always because of me. ‎By the time the doorbell rang, sweat clung to the back of my neck and my fingers were raw and pink. ‎I wiped my hands on my skirt and slipped toward the hallway, staying just out of sight but close enough to hear. ‎Two men stepped into the living room. ‎They were dressed neatly, their movements was in sync, almost mechanical. ‎From where I stood near the doorway, I could see my uncle’s stiff posture and Aunt Marissa’s forced smile. ‎The older man leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes moving slowly around the room as if measuring its worth. ‎“We’ve already given you three weeks,” he said in a voice that sounded almost bored. ‎“Still nothing has changed.” ‎“We are trying,” my uncle said quickly, wiping sweat from his forehead. “We’re arranging funds. Please… just a little more time.” ‎The younger man tilted his head, studying him carefully. ‎“Our boss values reliability,” he said. “When promises are broken, he tends to reconsider his generosity.” ‎Aunt Marissa nodded rapidly. ‎“We understand. Please, look around. We’re cooperating fully.” ‎The older man’s gaze drifted across the gleaming floors and carefully arranged dishes. ‎His expression didn’t change. ‎“Cooperation is appreciated,” he said calmly. ‎“But appreciation does not settle debt.” ‎I pressed my ear closer to the wall. ‎“Until the amount is fully repaid,” the man continued, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, “an assurance will be required.” ‎“Assurance?” my uncle repeated. ‎“More of a collateral,” the older man replied. ‎The word landed heavily in the room. ‎Collateral meant property, assets, something that could be sold. ‎“But we’ve already mortgaged the land,” Aunt Marissa said weakly. ‎“Yes,” the younger collector replied gently. ‎“We’re aware, but that was only enough to cover the three weeks we gave you.” ‎He paused before continuing. ‎“We need something our boss would consider valuable. Something that will ensure that you work hard to pay the money back.” ‎There was a long stretch of silence. ‎Then he leaned slightly closer. ‎“You have a daughter, don’t you?” ‎For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood. ‎A daughter...Collateral? ‎The two words refused to sit beside each other in my mind. ‎