Chapter 3 The Debt Collector

The air smelled of boiling potatoes and despair, literally signifying first-class citizens of low status.

Scarlett Andrews wiped her hands on her apron and peered through the cracked blinds as the clinking of an unfamiliar engine grew louder outside. The house 12 Neon Ridge had never hosted luxury-not in furniture, not in guests, not in style, not in class, and certainly not in the cars that pulled up to it. But the black Dodge that now idled in front of their fractured concrete lip didn't just whisper wealth-it screamed it. Long, polished, and ghostlike in its silence. Its arrival felt like an omen. It didn't just enter–it echoed.

"Scarlett," her mother's voice echoed in from the kitchen, breathless, timid, and anxious, "see who that is."

Scarlett didn't move. Something-an instinct, or fear, or maybe both-glued her feet to the floor.

The car door opened, and out stepped a man in a charcoal overcoat. Tall. Severe. Eyes sharp as glass. And beside him, another man-younger, maybe mid-to-late twenties, in a dark suit that clung to him like authority and affluence. They didn't knock. They didn't have to. Her father was already at the door.

Gerald Andrews opened it like a man on trial.

"Mr. Miles," he croaked, his voice fragile, anxious cracking around the edges.

Scarlett couldn't breathe. Mr. Miles? As in Jonathan Miles-the man who owned half the city, half of its wealth and scared the rest into silence?

And beside him, the younger one must've been Kyle Miles.

"Kyle Miles," her father said, nearly bowing. "And... your son. Please, please, come in."

The two men stepped inside, bringing with them the scent of cologne and something far more suffocating: power and control.

Scarlett backed into the hallway as they entered. She didn't want to be seen, but Kyle saw her anyway. Their eyes met-his were unreadable and dark, hers wide with confusion.

She turned quickly, the heat rising to her cheeks, and she had butterflies in her stomach–not the fairytale one, but the one of fear, suspense, and anxiety. Why were they here?

The living room hadn't been cleaned. The wallpaper peeled and was worn out. One of the couch cushions had a stain from last week's tea, the suede material ripped off like a meat off its bones in a butchery. And still, Jonathan Miles sat like he owned the very oxygen in the room, settling into the armchair with a precision that mocked their poverty. Kyle remained standing, his hands behind his back, surveying the space without expression.

Gerald wrung his hands. "I-I know I missed the payment, but I just need a little more time. You said you'd give me until the 15th. Today's only the 11th-"

"You've had more time than most," Jonathan interrupted, his voice low and smooth. "And your balance hasn't decreased. It's increased. With interest."

Scarlett, now in the hallway shadows, felt the shift in the air. Her father was trembling.

"I swear, I'm working double shifts at the dock," Gerald said. "I sold my tools. My wife pawned her jewellery. We've tried everything. Just... a little longer-"

Jonathan raised a hand. Silence.

And then he said the unthinkable.

"I made a proposal, and my son has concented on the proposal."

Gerald blinked. "A... a proposal?"

Jonathan looked at Kyle, whose gaze drifted once more toward the hallway. Scarlett ducked further back.

Kyle stepped forward. "I'll clear your father's debt," he said, his voice calm, practised. "In exchange, you marry me."

Scarlett's ears rang. Her mind blanked. For a moment, she wondered if she'd heard wrong. If this was some sick joke.

But the silence in the room confirmed it.

Gerald looked toward the hallway as if he could already feel his daughter's heartbreak crashing toward him like a storm. "She's-she's only nineteen."

Kyle shrugged slightly. "It's legal."

Scarlett stepped into view now, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

"You don't even know me," she said quietly.

Kyle turned to her fully. Their eyes locked.

"I don't need to, because I already own you" he said.

Jonathan rose to his feet. "The choice is yours, Gerald. Pay us by Friday or sign your daughter's name into the agreement. One path saves your house. The other ends with eviction. And possibly jail."

And just like that, they turned to leave.

Scarlett didn't speak. Her legs wouldn't move. Her mind scrambled through panic, rage, and disbelief. Was this her life now? A bargaining chip in her father's debts? Property traded between men in suits?

Gerald fell to his knees.

"Scarlett," he whispered, breaking. "Please... I can't survive prison. Your brother needs medication. Your mother... she's sick. I-" He choked back a sob. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

Scarlett didn't cry. Her face went blank, her body cold.

She looked out the open door at the dark car, and the man was already sliding back into it.

Kyle Miles.

The man who had just claimed her life like a purchase.

And something deep inside her snapped-not with anger, but with resolve. Because if this was the cage she'd been thrown into...

She would learn the bars. She would count them. She would map every corner of the prison.

And maybe, just maybe-she would find the door.

Scarlett sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the faded patch of moonlight stretching across the floorboards. Her windows were barely good enough to protect her from the wild. The cracked window groaned faintly with the night wind, a soft whistle sneaking through the broken seal. This room-this tiny, timeworn space-had always been her only corner of safety, reflection, and imagination. A cage, yes, but one she understood, one she controlled, one that understood her well.

The ceiling paint was peeling again. It is so wrecked that it can't hold paint again. The wallpaper along the far wall had started to bubble, and it's swollen–not a new thing. Her little desk in the corner was slanted, one of the legs swinging from the hold of one nail and the right leg held up by two stacked textbooks from a school she could no longer afford to attend, due to the fact of lack of money. On the floor near her mattress, her brother's cough echoed through the thin wall they shared. The familiar sound twisted something inside her chest.

Scarlett clenched her hands in her lap.

Kyle Miles wanted to marry her.

Not for love. Not for her. But because it served some twisted logic that men like him used to control their empires. She was collateral. A convenience. A signature that would erase numbers off a ledger.

And yet... part of her wondered if this was always her fate. Her life had never belonged to her. Not really.

She leaned back against the wall, pulling the thin blanket tighter around her shoulders. The cold reached into her bones anyway. There was a hole in the corner of the window frame. At night, wind crept in like a ghost. It made her feel exposed-like even the house itself was tired of holding her.

Her eyes burned. She hadn't cried yet. Maybe she couldn't.

Downstairs, her parents were silent. Her father had been pacing for hours, the floor creaking rhythmically with his guilt. Her mother hadn't spoken a word since the Miles men left.

Scarlett pressed her head against the wall and closed her eyes.

Memories started to flood in-her mother braiding her hair with trembling fingers, her brother asking her to read him bedtime stories when their father was out late working. The time she'd saved up for new shoes but used the money to buy insulin for her mom instead. All the quiet sacrifices no one ever thanked her for.

And now this.

Marry a man who looks at you like a transaction.

She didn't want to think about Kyle's eyes-how empty they were. Like he'd made up his mind before ever walking into their house. Like her voice didn't matter.

She hated that he was beautiful.

She hated more that part of her, some lost, lonely part of her, wondered what it might be like to be taken away from this place. To be warm. To sleep without worrying about whether the roof would leak in the rain. To not wake up to her brother's cough or her mother's quiet sobs behind the closed bathroom door.

The thought disgusted her.

Scarlett stood and walked to the window. She rested her palms on the old wood frame, breathing through the rising panic that climbed up her throat. Outside, the street was quiet. The Miles' car was long gone, but it had left something behind-an imprint, a presence that refused to fade. Like her life had changed in a single moment and now she had to catch up to it.

What would it be like to live in his world?

Marble floors. Clean, white sheets. A house without yelling or the smell of boiled potatoes and fear.

But also... a husband she didn't know. A stranger who saw her as a bargain. A life lived behind locked doors, but this time, with gold-plated bars.

She didn't want that.

But she didn't want this either.

She pressed her forehead against the glass.

"God," she whispered, "what am I supposed to do?"

No answer came.

Only the wind and the low creak of the house settling around her. She sobbed and slept off unexpectedly

~The Next Morning – The Miles Estate~

The Miles estate did not wake. It unfolded, like a duvet wrapped on a white sheet.

Mornings here weren't marked by the shriek of an alarm clock or the clatter of a kettle lid. They began in silence, stitched together by the quiet rhythm of ritual and poise. In the guesthouse, the staff were already dressed, moving through halls like shadows and silence, their eyes low, their steps quiet. The scent of fresh espresso drifted faintly through the air, followed by the tang of polished wood and the citrus oil used to clean the bannisters.

Kyle Miles stood alone in the east-wing study, staring at a chessboard.

He hadn't touched the pieces.

Not yet.

He simply studied them the way he studied everything-calm, precise, calculating. The room was sleek: all glass and steel, the light slicing in through tall windows like a scalpel, illuminating the cold elegance of the space. No family photos. No paintings. Just abstract art that costs more than most homes and some people's monthly salary. Symbols of taste, not sentiment.

A knock came.

He didn't look up. "Come in."

Jonathan Miles entered, already dressed for a boardroom. Dark navy suit, silver cufflinks, a tie with an old military knot. He didn't sit. He never did. He preferred to stand, to loom, to remind the room who it belonged to.

"Did you sleep?" Jonathan asked.

Kyle finally moved a pawn. "I never do before a transaction."

His father raised an eyebrow. "So you see her as a transaction."

Kyle didn't answer right away. He kept his eyes on the board. "Isn't that what we agreed she was?"

Jonathan gave a short, humourless chuckle. "You're learning, son."

Silence lingered.

"She's younger than I expected," Jonathan said after a moment.

Kyle's jaw ticked. "She's legal."

"I know." He walked toward the window. "But legal doesn't mean ready. She's not from our world.

"She doesn't need to be," Kyle said flatly. "She just needs to sign."

Jonathan turned slightly, studying his son.

"There's a look in your eye," he said slowly. "Reminds me of your mother when she still had hope. Don't let it get in the way. This isn't about love. It's about loyalty. Appearances. Control."

Kyle's hands curled around the edge of the chessboard.

"I don't do love," he said.

"Good," Jonathan replied, his voice steel. "Then don't start now."

The silence thickened. Only the hum of the estate filled the room now-the distant drone of an engine warming up outside, a gardener's footsteps brushing gravel, the faint clicking of a staff member entering data down the hall.

Kyle finally moved the knight.

"She'll hate me," he said, not quite a question.

Jonathan didn't hesitate. "Let her. It makes obedience easier."

Kyle's eyes were unreadable as he straightened. The chess game wasn't over. It had barely begun.

He didn't know much about Scarlett Andrews, but what he remembered most wasn't her poverty, or the way her father begged. It was the way she looked at him.

Like she saw right through the tailored suit and cold demeanor.

Like she knew.

That unnerved him more than he wanted to admit.

"She'll be here by Monday," Jonathan said, already heading for the door.

Kyle nodded once.

And when the door closed behind his father, Kyle reached for the queen on the board-and laid her flat.

Face down. Silenced.

Just like the girl who was about to become his wife.

~Monday – The Deal Day~

The morning broke softly in the slums of NeonRidge, but the birds chirped like they didn't know the heaviness of the day. Their songs were sweet, careless, light-completely out of place in the dying breath of Scarlett Andrews' girlhood.

The street had never looked this awake.

Neighbours peeked through tattered curtains. Children were hushed and pulled indoors. Even the stray dog that usually barked at passing cars lay still, watching the black vehicle that had returned like a shadow come to collect what was owed.

Men stepped out first-two of them, dressed in midnight-tailored suits that wrapped around their bodies like second skin. Their faces were stone, their movements synchronized. One opened the back door like a soldier drawing a sword.

The car breathed once, then stilled.

And out he stepped.

Kyle Miles.

He rose from the car like a myth in motion-6'4 of carved intent, every inch of him deliberate. His jawline could have been chiselled from marble, sharp, and commanding. The early sun kissed the clean taper of his jet-black beard, neatly trimmed to perfection, not a strand out of place. His hair slicked back with a sheen that matched the leather strap of the Rolex hugging his wrist, glinted as he adjusted his cuffs.

The ring on his finger-heavy, gold, thick-rested with dominance on his right hand. The kind of ring is not just worn but wielded.

He didn't blink at the stares.

Didn't flinch at the cracking paint on the Andrews' front door.

Didn't smile.

His aqua-blue eyes swept the property with one look-cold, unreadable. Fierce.

Unforgiving.

The soles of his black Italian shoes touched the ground like they were judging it. As if even the dirt beneath him should be grateful to be in his presence. The steps he took toward the house were steady, slow, and owned.

Behind the door, Scarlett stood with her hands balled into fists. Her heart raced, hammering in her chest with a mix of dread and defiance. She had worn the only decent dress she had-navy blue, frayed at the hem-but she held her chin high.

She wouldn't cower.

Not even now.

The knock wasn't a knock.

It was a claim.

Scarlett opened the door before her father could. And there he stood-Kyle Miles-his presence filling the frame like a storm.

"You're late," she said, without thinking.

He arched one brow, a flicker of something-amusement?-passing through those piercing eyes. "You're bold."

Her father stepped in beside her, nervous, wringing his hands again like it was part of his skin now.

"Mr. Miles-sir-please come in. We've... we've prepared the documents."

Kyle didn't look at Gerald. He looked only at Scarlett.

She noticed that.

"I won't be staying long," he said, stepping through the doorway without waiting for permission.

Inside, the air tensed. Her mother stood near the kitchen archway, her face pale, and her eyes rimmed with sleeplessness. Her younger brother peeked from behind her leg, too young to understand the weight that hung in the room, but old enough to feel it.

Scarlett led him to the table.

On it sat the papers.

The deal.

Her freedom for her father's.

Kyle glanced down at them but didn't sit. "You've read it?"

She nodded. "Every line."

He stepped closer. "And?"

She lifted her chin. "I don't agree with most of it. But I don't have a choice."

His lips curved-just a fraction, not a smile. Something darker. "You always have a choice, Scarlett. You just don't always like your options."

She hated how her name sounded in his mouth. Like it was already his.

He reached into his coat and retrieved a pen. A sleek black Montblanc. It glinted under the weak bulb above the table like it knew it was a weapon.

He placed it beside the papers.

"You sign first."

Scarlett looked at the pen. Her fingers trembled before they reached for it.

But just before the ink touched the page, she paused and met his eyes again.

"I'm not property," she said, voice steady. "Don't treat me like it."

Kyle didn't blink.

He leaned in just enough that only she could hear his reply.

"Then don't act like something I can break."

The words didn't slap-they sliced.

She signed.

And in that moment, the girl named Scarlett Andrews died quietly.

The wife of Kyle Miles was born-wrapped not in a gown but in ink, silence, and surrender.

Outside, the birds kept singing.

Inside, the cage door closed.

The house had gone quiet again. Too quiet. Not the kind that lulled one to sleep, but the kind that wrapped itself around her throat like a noose. The type that slitted her throat like a sword.

Scarlett lay curled on her worn-out mattress, knees tucked tightly to her chest, arms wrapped around her body like she was trying to keep herself from falling apart. The sheets were damp beneath her, not from sweat, but from the tears she'd cried for hours on end. The air in her room was thick- like thick clouds and dark shadows, like grief had seeped into the walls, clinging to the cracked paint and rotting wood.

Her stomach churned. Butterflies? No. This wasn't romance. This wasn't giddy excitement or nervous anticipation.

This was nausea.

The kind that twisted her insides and made her clutch her belly as if she could physically hold back the pain. Her gut felt like it was being clawed from the inside. It reminded her of the last time she'd been truly sick-except this was worse. This wasn't the flu. This was her soul breaking, her walls cracking. Quietly. Deliberately. As though her body had agreed to the deal but her spirit had refused to sign.

Her cheeks were sore-raw, even-not because she'd blushed at a love letter or been flattered by a compliment in a high school hallway.

They burned from the roughness of her own palm.

She'd been wiping her tears for hours. First, with the back of her hand, then her sleeve, then both. Her skin had turned red from the friction, saltwater soaking her sleeves, soaking her pillow, soaking the corners of the past she'd never get back.

She had dreamed of weddings once. As a little girl, she imagined lace and flowers, soft vows, and stolen kisses. A man who'd look at her like she was the whole sky.

Now, her marriage was paperwork.

A contract.

An exchange.

Scarlett Andrews: signed, sealed, delivered.

"I'm more like a parcel," she chuckled so loud that her voice echoed in the dark street like an owl in the wild.

She turned over to her side, her face half-buried in the pillow. Her hair stuck to her skin, wet from tears and sweat and despair. The word "why?" rang in her skull like a ghost that wouldn't stop knocking.

Why her?

Why this life?

Why did her father gamble everything?

Why didn't her mother stop it?

Why did she have to be the debt?

She gritted her teeth as a fresh wave of emotion crashed into her chest, her breathing uneven. Her throat ached from silent sobs. She hadn't even had the strength to cry loudly. She didn't want her brother to hear. He'd already been through enough.

She wanted the earth to open. She wanted the floor beneath her to crack wide like a gaping mouth and swallow her whole. Let an earthquake come. Let it take this house. Let it take her name, her fears, her choices.

Let it take her.

The humiliation of it all sat heavy on her bones. A man she barely knew would now own her time, her name, her body.

The thought made her curl tighter, like shrinking small enough might make it all go away.

But nothing went away. Not here. Not in the Andrews house. Not in this world.

And somewhere beneath the tears, beneath the shaking hands and the red cheeks, a seed of something darker began to bloom in her chest.

Not hope.

Not strength.

But resentment.

Resentment, she would soon learn, is sometimes more powerful than love.