PROPERTY OF THE VAULT

Chapter 2: Shark at the Door

Three times she heard the bell yell at her. It wasn't a gentle chime; it was a furious, insistent shriek, a sound caught between the lingering nightmare and the brutal reality of the morning. She fumbled for her phone, the screen blinding her with the time: 9:42 AM. Eden immediately started scrambling out of bed, her body acting on muscle memory, convinced she was late for her shift at the diner. Then, the grief hit her again, a paralyzing wave of sorrow and absolute truth: she wasn't going to work today, and the reason why was too heavy to bear. She immediately started sobbing all over again when the doorbell rang a fourth, sharp time.

She quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand, the movement useless against the fresh surge of tears, and started running for the door. She was too exposed, too raw to receive visitors, yet her only thought was that it had to be Veronica, checking in on her best friend.

She twisted the deadbolt. It slammed down with a heavy click, signaling that she could finally open the door. She pulled the door ajar—it dragged across the worn welcome mat before revealing the man standing on the stoop.

He was massive, blocking the spring light. He wasn't wearing a suit, but thick, unadorned black work clothes—a look of hard, unforgiving muscle poured into denim and leather. The man carried a quiet and absolute authority, a cold, indifferent darkness in his unmoving eyes that was far more unnerving than outright anger. This was not a grieving neighbor or a worried friend; this was an implement of force.

Eden looked him up and down, feeling impossibly small, before meekly asking, “Can I help you with something?”

The strange man gave only a hollow, humorless laugh, a sound that felt like sandpaper. “The owners of The Vault have sent me to make sure their terms are understood.”

“What terms are you talking about?” Eden asked, a frantic shake entering her voice. She pulled the door further open, perhaps hoping the light would make the scene less surreal. “I’ve never even been to The Vault…”

The man looked down at his combat boots, a gesture of bored impatience, before meeting her gaze again. “Ric Ames has an outstanding balance with Damon Thorn and Cain Lockheart.”

The burly man then produced a large, sealed yellow envelope and shoved it into Eden's chest with such force she stumbled back against the doorframe, the movement sending a jolt of alarm through her already frayed nerves.

“What is this!” Eden immediately cried out, more shocked by the physical aggression than the paper.

The man didn't answer or remove his hand from the envelope. Instead, he shoved it harder against her sternum and leaned in close, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. “At 7 PM you have a meeting with my clients at The Vault. Don't be late. They aren't patient in any regard.”

With that, he let go of the envelope. Eden’s hands flashed upward to catch it, the heavy paper crinkling under her shaky grip. He turned and walked toward a blacked-out SUV with windows that reflected the suburban street like mirrored armor. Edna didn't hesitate. She stepped inside and slammed the door shut, quickly turning the deadbolt. The double-click was a pathetic, false sense of security, but she welcomed it.

Eden turned and slid down the door, sinking to the floor. Her breath came in ragged, hyperventilating gasps. Her shaky hands finally wrestled the large yellow envelope open. Inside was a balance statement, clean and corporate, listing an outstanding balance of $75,000. The invoice revealed her dad had been making payments—large, frequent ones—prior to his death, but she had no idea why he would need to take out such a massive, predatory loan.

Then, the terrible math dawned on her: his surgeries and continuous recovery had cost just over $110,000. Her father, the careful, grounded investor, had been secretly drowning in medical debt. He had taken care of the big-ticket items—the insurance policies, the mortgage—but the deductibles, the experimental treatments, the endless hospice care—it had all consumed their savings.

Eden could feel the panic physically rising, turning her blood to ice and her skin clammy. The paper shook in her hands, a simple piece of cardstock holding the potential end of her entire life. She never thought to ask him about his medical debt because he had always told her it was 'handled.' She thought he had purchased the best private health insurance possible because he was self-employed. She wasn't under the impression that her dad was rich, but she knew he had done okay for them, especially after her Mom left and her debt finally cleared. Her mother had racked up tens of thousands of dollars in rehab bills that had financially set them back for years before Ric, Eden's Dad, had finally opened his own real estate investment business.

She had been prepared for the mortgage, the funeral, and the grief. But this? This silent, crippling weight of debt was an assassination of her future. She sat in front of the door, clutching her shirt. How could he do this? she kept thinking, not in anger, but in sheer bewilderment that the one person she trusted most in the world would leave her with a debt so daunting. She looked at the tips she’d meticulously saved from waitressing—a paltry sum. She couldn't imagine paying this off.

She sat up suddenly, yelling into the empty house, “Was that a f*****g loan shark! At our front door?”

She started pacing, the frantic energy finally overcoming the paralysis. A loan shark in Oak Brook? That seemed utterly insane. Maybe that man was just a process server, hired to scare her? But why did he shove her? Her mind reeled. Now Eden was considering calling the police, because his actions certainly felt like a threat.

She stopped pacing and looked at the empty spot in the living room where the hospital bed had recently sat. An empty space where her father used to be. She sighed, her throat closing as she remembered when they first brought the bed into the living room so he could sit in the afternoon sun. She stood, envying her previous, ignorant self, and the time she thought she still had with him. She thought she knew her Dad, and how wrong she really was. Did he go and invest in a different property, a hidden asset I don’t know about?

She figured she would find out the truth during probate, after the lawyer finally went through his will. But that would take weeks. Tonight was hours away.

She finally looked at her phone. Veronica had called and texted several times. She replied back with a shaky message: 'Call you soon. Had a visitor.' For now, she needed to make the immediate arrangements for the funeral home. She reached out to them to confirm her father had passed and been taken from the hospital.

But she also needed to prepare for tonight’s meeting with the mysterious men her father owed. Eden was feeling intensely nervous. She’d only heard about Damon and Cain a few times in passing. Even in a small town where everyone knew everyone, no one knew these men. The Vault had popped up one day, a hyper-exclusive bar that seemed to bring a strange, wealthy clientele from Chicago into Oak Brook—people who usually wouldn't spare their town a glance.

Eden had never been to the luxurious Vault; she understood it was a members-only establishment, and she never had the money, or the time, to go there as an adult. She always spent her days working and rushing home to be with her father.

EDEN

I’ve been looking in this closet for over thirty minutes trying to piece together a decent outfit. I had nothing before I was slapped with a seventy-five-thousand-dollar invoice, and I have even less money now to go buy something appropriate for two ruthlessly wealthy club owners.

Thank God Veronica did the laundry this week, or I’d be s**t out of luck. I started sifting through the wrinkled pile in the hamper, but paused when I came across Dad's favorite T-shirt. I stopped and held it to my nose, inhaling deeply. It might be weird, but it smelled faintly of him—that mix of old spice, coffee, and linen. The sudden, overwhelming desire to hug him one last time hit me so hard that I started crying all over again. I threw the shirt back in the dryer, a safe holding spot where it would remain for an undetermined amount of time.

I took my phone out to look at the time, and that's just my luck: I've wasted all the time I allocated to my hair looking for clothes. Girl math, I sighed, I will just have to wash it to fix the curls and that will give me some time to do a little make-up. I unfortunately have naturally dark, near-black hair that's intensely curly, and it's the hardest thing in the world to straighten. But I try to make it look tame for work.

Everyone says that I should be grateful for this thick, beautiful curly hair, but I get better tips when my hair is sleek and straight, and my makeup is done. Why am I even trying to impress the two shut-ins of this town?

I quickly took a shower while I tried to think of all the possible outcomes tonight might bring. The terror and the debt were a cruel, cold wash. All I could find to wear that felt semi-appropriate for an evening meeting were some ripped, bell-bottom jeans and a simple black V-neck top that I usually reserve for my waitressing uniform. It would have to do at least they are clean. I grabbed the car keys and slipped out of the garage. The silence of the morning was shattered by the promise of the night.