The Debt Bride

They say I live in a palace.

I guess they're not wrong. The Fiorelli estate is the kind of place people whisper about - tucked away behind iron gates and winding driveways, just far enough from the chaos of Manhattan to feel like another world entirely. It's beautiful. Elegant. Cold, sometimes. But mostly quiet.

And I've always loved the quiet.

The house has high ceilings, gold accents, and rooms that smell like old books and lemon polish. Our garden looks like something pulled from a forgotten Italian fairytale - roses climbing along stone archways, marble fountains humming gently, and lavender fields that bloom every spring like clockwork. It's peaceful. Perfect. And very, very protected.

I've never taken the subway. Never stood in a Starbucks line or wandered the city on my own. Growing up, I thought that was normal - to have guards at the gates and men in black suits who nodded at you like statues. I don't remember ever being alone in public.

Not truly.

But I never questioned it. I had freedom in other ways.I had silence. And safety. And beauty.

And for a long time, that was enough.

My mornings begin with sunlight spilling across the bed - soft, golden, warm against my skin. I like to rise early, while the estate is still asleep. Wrap myself in a shawl, grab my sketchpad, and walk barefoot into the garden. I follow the same path each time, crunching across white gravel, brushing my fingers over rosemary and ivy as I pass.

It's my favorite part of the day. Out there, I can think. Dream. Breathe.

And lately, I've had so much to think about.

Three weeks ago, I graduated - top of my class in real estate development. After years of quiet study and meticulous planning, I finally have a degree with my name on it. It's framed on my desk now, a little crooked, but I don't care. I earned it. I really did.

My father didn't come to the ceremony. "Business," he said. He always says that.

But a few days later, he surprised me.

We had dinner in the garden courtyard, just the two of us. There were candles and old jazz playing from the villa windows. He opened a bottle of wine I'd never even seen him touch before, and for the first time in a very long time, he looked at me - really looked at me - and said, "I'm proud of you."

And I believed him.

He told me I'd be taking on my first personal project - restoring the family winery upstate. That it was mine, start to finish. I nearly cried. I've always wanted to create spaces that feel alive, that hold memories. Places people can belong to.

That night, he even said I could travel. Maybe see Europe. Finally explore everything I'd only ever read about. It felt like everything I'd worked for was finally opening up before me - wide and golden and possible.

But lately... something feels off.

I don't know how to explain it. It's like the air has shifted.

My father's calls are longer. His expressions are tighter. He spends more time behind closed doors now, and when I pass by, the voices inside lower to whispers. The guards - the ones who used to nod at me with the same easy rhythm - now glance at the gate more often than they glance at me.

And there's a car.

A black one. Sleek, expensive-looking, with tinted windows that don't roll down.

It's been parked across the street for three days.

It doesn't move. No one gets in or out. It's just... there. Watching.

Or maybe I'm imagining that part. I don't know.

I try not to look at it as I walk the garden path, sketchpad against my chest, but I always do. Just a quick glance. Just enough to see it hasn't gone. Just enough to feel the chill slide down my spine again.

This morning, the lavender smelled stronger than usual. I let my fingers trail through the blossoms, my bare feet brushing against the cold stone, trying to chase the unease away. I told myself it's nothing. That I'm being dramatic. That I'm just adjusting to this new chapter of my life.

But the truth?

It feels like something's waiting.

Something just past the edge of the gates.

And whatever it is... it already knows my name.