Three Months Ago
1260 Words
“Let go of me!”
Chloe’s back hit the mattress hard. The air punched out of her lungs.
“I went to the wedding,” she gasped, scrambling up on her elbows. “I did what you wanted. What else do you want from me? What?”
Liam stood over her, his shadow swallowing the bed.
His tie was gone. His jacket too.
Only the predator remained.
“Are you playing innocent?”
His voice was low, dangerous.
“Or do you prefer it when I force you?”
“I don’t—”
“This is your debt, Chloe.”
He said it like he was commenting on the weather. Detached. Absolute.
“And I intend to collect. One payment at a time.”
Her eyes squeezed shut.
The fight drained out of her.
Tears came hot, fast, shameful.
“I’m sorry, Rose,” she whispered to the ceiling, to the ghost between them.
“I didn’t know it would end like this.”
---
_Two Months Earlier_
Pain twisted in Chloe’s gut like a knife.
She curled around a pillow in her bedroom, teeth gritted, sweat beading on her forehead.
The AD shoot in Spain was tomorrow. Six a.m. flight. Director Shaw was a tyrant and her agent, Mark, was worse.
Canceling wasn’t an option. Showing up like this wasn’t either.
There was only one person who could save her.
Her hand fumbled for her phone.
She dialed before she could talk herself out of it.
Rose answered on the second ring.
“Best, you okay? You sound like death.”
“Rose, it’s bad,” Chloe rasped.
“Can you do me a favor? A huge one.”
“Anything for you. Always.”
“It’s the Spain AD. I can’t fly. I can’t even stand. Will you go for me? Please?”
She hated how desperate she sounded.
Hated it more because it worked.
A pause.
“Chloe… you know what Spain’s like this time of year. Wildfires. Heat waves. It’s not—”
“I know. That’s why it’s perfect for the shoot. Golden hour lasts forever. And Shaw can’t find a replacement this late. It’s a career-maker, Rose. Please. I’m begging.”
Rose sighed.
Chloe could picture her, rolling her eyes but already caving.
“You know I can’t say no to you. But on one condition.”
“Name it. Anything.”
“Promise me you’ll see a doctor. Right after this call.”
“I will. I swear. Daisy’s on her way now.”
The lie slipped out too easy.
“Now go pack or you’ll miss the flight.”
Rose laughed.
“Bossy. Fine. But you owe me tapas when I get back.”
“I’ll buy the whole restaurant. Love you, best.”
“Love you more, i***t. Feel better.”
Chloe ended the call and pressed the phone to her chest.
“What would I do without you,” she whispered to the empty room.
She kissed the screen.
Relief let her sleep.
A few hours of dreamless, painless dark.
She woke to a quiet house and a calmer stomach.
Hope made her hungry.
She padded downstairs, grabbed cookies from the kitchen, and flopped onto the couch.
The remote was cool in her hand.
She turned on the TV for noise.
The noise stopped her breathing.
“—breaking news. At 4:50 PM local time on September 3rd, Flight GH-217 bound for Barcelona crashed shortly after takeoff. 200 souls on board. Eight survivors have been pulled from the wreckage, but intense fires are hampering rescue efforts—”
The plate slipped.
Cookies and ceramic exploded across her hardwood floor.
“That’s…”
Her voice didn’t sound like hers.
“That’s Rose’s flight. Right?”
The question hung in the air.
No one answered.
“No. No, it can’t be.”
Her hands shook as she grabbed her phone, scrolled back to Mark’s text from yesterday.
The e-ticket. Flight GH-217. Departure: 4:30 PM. September 3rd.
Reality hit like a truck.
Chloe’s fingers tangled in her hair and _pulled._
The neat curls she’d spent an hour on that morning turned wild.
A sob tore out of her, raw and ugly.
She slid off the couch and onto the fluffy rug, folding into herself as if she could disappear.
The phone vibrated against her thigh.
She answered without looking.
“Chloe? Chloe, it’s Daisy. Are you okay? Where are you? I just saw the news about Rose—”
“I— I’m n-not okay,” Chloe choked out.
Each word was a shard of glass.
“Daisy, I’m not—”
“I know, honey. I know. God, I know.”
Daisy’s voice cracked, then steadied.
“She’s my best friend too. Listen to me. Stay where you are. I’m leaving the office now. I’ll be there in an hour. Don’t move, okay?”
Chloe could only hum. A broken sound.
The three of them — Chloe, Rose, Daisy.
College roommates turned sisters.
After graduation, Daisy got snapped up by VellCorp as a financial manager. Eighty-hour weeks turned her into a ghost.
Chloe and Rose chose acting.
Same agencies, same auditions, same ratty apartment for two years before Chloe’s toothpaste commercial went viral.
They were the trio. Unbreakable.
Until today.
Chloe cried until her throat was sandpaper.
Memories ambushed her: Rose teaching her to contour, Rose sneaking her into a wrap party, Rose holding her hair back after her first heartbreak.
She cried until the tears stopped and exhaustion took her.
The doorbell ripped her from sleep.
She dragged herself to the door, unlocked it, and collapsed into Daisy’s arms before the other woman could speak.
Seeing Daisy made it real again.
The sobs started fresh, violent.
She buried her face in Daisy’s blazer, soaking it, ruining it.
She didn’t care.
Daisy didn’t either.
She just held on.
One hand cradled the back of Chloe’s head, the other rubbed circles on her back.
“I’ve got you,” she murmured, over and over.
“Let it out. I’ve got you, Chloe. Cry. Just cry.”
And Chloe did.
Because if Daisy broke too, there’d be no one left to be strong.
So Daisy stayed stone.
She swallowed her own grief, locked it behind her teeth, and let Chloe shatter.
“It’s okay, dear,” Daisy whispered into her hair.
“Cry all you want. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Chloe heard her.
Took it as permission.
She wailed, a sound so lost it didn’t seem human.
She let two months of friendship, of laughter, of _Rose_ pour out of her onto Daisy’s shoulder.
Daisy held her tighter.
Outside, the September sun set.
Inside, Chloe’s world had already gone dark.
Two months later, she’d understand why Liam Reigns called it a debt.
Two months later, she’d wear Rose’s punishment like a wedding ring.
---
The present crashed back in.
The weight of Liam on the bed beside her.
The silence in the Reigns mansion pressing against the windows.
His hand was still gripping her wrist.
Not hard enough to bruise.
Just hard enough to remind her she wasn’t free.
He watched the tears fall.
Didn’t wipe them.
Didn’t look away.
“When you begged her to go to Spain,” he said quietly, “you didn’t just send Rose to her death.
You sent _my_ Rose.”
Chloe’s breath hitched.
_My Rose._
So that was it.
That was the debt.
Not money.
Not contracts.
A person.
And now Chloe was supposed to pay it.
One payment at a time.
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