Paying My Father's Debt

Chapter 6:

For a fleeting, fragile moment, she believed it had all been a dream — a strange, feverish nightmare spun from her own exhaustion and buried fears, twisted into life by the pressure of too much uncertainty and too little sleep.

She lay still beneath a sheet so soft it felt like breath, the air around her perfumed faintly with rosewater and something richer beneath — sandalwood, maybe, or whatever scent money could afford to burn quietly in the corners of estates like this. The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t belong to her modest apartment or the creaking floors of her childhood home, but to somewhere expensive, secluded, and entirely foreign.

When she finally stirred and opened her eyes, the ceiling above her was a soft wash of cream and gold, with a delicately painted medallion at its center, and for one brief second she laughed, low and disbelieving, at the absurdity of her own imagination. Because only her mind could have conjured a man like William — cruel, unreadable, his voice wrapped in velvet and lined with steel — and yet somehow tender when he wasn’t busy breaking her down.

Her mind had really gone for it this time. Men like that only existed in fantasy novels and trauma-induced hallucinations.

Not in real life. Not in hers.

But the laugh died the moment she sat up.

The room didn’t fade. Neither did the weight around her finger.

She looked down slowly, her breath catching at the sight of the ring still snug on her hand — simple and cold, elegant and terrifying in its implications. No dream could do that. No nightmare clung so tightly in daylight.

Panic stirred somewhere in her chest, not sharp and sudden, but heavy and quiet — the kind that settled deep into the bones and made everything feel slower than it should. She pushed off the bed, her bare feet sinking into a thick cream rug, and walked toward the tall windows on the far end of the room.

The curtains were open.

Outside, a sea of roses greeted her — crimson, blush, soft peach — blooming with unnatural perfection in neatly terraced gardens that stretched into the tree line. It was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at, like it was mocking her for being too hollow to appreciate it.

The room was more than a bedroom — it was a wing.There was a reading nook tucked beneath arched windows, the velvet chaise the kind you only ever saw in art galleries or painfully curated Pinterest boards. A fireplace sat dormant nearby, its marble trim clean enough to reflect light. A small stack of untouched books waited beside the hearth — titles she recognized, all hardcovers, all first editions.

But it was the wardrobe that stopped her.

It stretched across the far wall like a boutique showroom, doors already open as if someone expected her to admire it. Racks of designer clothing gleamed under recessed lighting — gowns in silk, velvet, and sheer layers of lace from names that had once lived only in fashion editorials and runways.

Dior. Elie Saab. Jacquemus. Miu Miu. Chanel.

Shoes were lined by color and height — Louboutins with red soles gleaming under the lights, Jimmy Choos in glittered satin, a few pointed Balenciagas in black leather. A glass drawer revealed long opera gloves in delicate silks and buttery suede, and behind it, curated displays of La Perla and Agent Provocateur lingerie folded with absurd precision.

Accessories hung like art: vintage Chanel brooches, Cartier bracelets, pearl-dropped earrings still in their velvet cases. A row of Bottega clutches sat beneath them like sentinels.

It should have been a dream. It wasn’t.

Even when her father had been at the height of his empire, when the halls of power still bent to his name, her childhood bedroom had never looked like this — had never been this soft, this complete, this cruelly thoughtful.

Mary turned in a slow circle, her arms crossed against her chest, and wondered — not for the first time — if she'd sold her soul to the devil and hadn’t even noticed when it happened. Because how else could she explain being surrounded by everything she could ever want and feeling like she was suffocating?

A knock sounded — sharp and sudden, but not loud. She froze.

The door opened before she could speak, and a girl stepped inside, pale and composed, dressed in a traditional maid’s uniform so starkly proper that it almost felt like satire. Her black hair was braided tightly against her neck, her face free of expression, her hands folded around a silver box and a cream envelope sealed with a wax insignia.

“Good morning, Mrs. Flanagan,” the girl said, her voice clipped and clear.

The title made Mary’s stomach twist.

“Please don’t call me that,” she murmured, her voice barely louder than the rustle of curtains.

The maid didn’t blink. “My name is Felicity. I am here to serve. If you require anything, there is a bell on your bedside table. You may ring it at any time.”

Mary studied her, trying to find a crack in the porcelain calm. “Where am I, Felicity? What is this place, really?”

“If Master William wishes for you to know, he will tell you himself,” she replied without hesitation.

“So you’re not going to answer anything?”

“Not unless I am instructed to.”

Mary huffed a bitter laugh, half-resigned already. “Of course.”

Felicity stepped forward and placed the box on a small side table, the envelope on top. “This is from Master William. He requests your presence at tonight’s gathering.”

Mary’s brows furrowed. She picked up the envelope and opened it slowly, her hands not quite steady.

You will attend tonight’s gathering at the Don’s estate.

You will be introduced as my wife.

Felicity will assist in your preparation.

Wear the gown inside.

No salutation. No signature. Just directions. Commands, really.

She opened the box and found a dress folded in layers of tissue paper — deep burgundy, smooth as wine, cut in a way that whispered seduction without shouting it. It was the kind of dress that could silence a room.

Felicity moved behind her, already laying out shoes, gloves, jewelry, a choker with a clasp shaped like a serpent. Mary didn’t stop her.

As the preparations continued, Felicity’s voice broke the silence once more — softer this time, quieter. “At events like this,” she said, adjusting the hem of the gown, “you are never truly safe.”

Mary stilled.

“Don’t drink anything you didn’t pour yourself,” Felicity continued, unfastening a velvet case. “Don’t speak freely to strangers, and never assume someone is your ally. Even friends in this world are dangerous.”’

When Felicity was done, she led Mary down the same hallway and out through a narrow passage hidden behind the tall rose hedges.

Felicity paused before the wall of roses, her fingers brushing aside a thin veil of ivy to reveal a hidden keypad nestled in stone. Without a word, she entered a four-digit code — swift, practiced, like muscle memory passed down through silence — and the door released with a muted click, the vines shivering as it creaked open.

Beyond it, the estate loomed, its long drive lined with evergreens that looked like they’d been there longer than anyone still breathing. At the end of the path, beneath the early sun, a black Rolls-Royce waited.

Still. Patient.

Mary stepped toward it, her dress whispering around her legs, every movement too graceful, too quiet — like the house had already taught her how to walk the part.