Paying My Father's Debt

Chapter 5:

She stared at the contract.

The letters blurred in front of her eyes, but not from the fine print — from the heaviness pressing down on her chest. Her fingers hovered above the paper, trembling.

What kind of contract is this?

Marriage, yes. But not the kind little girls dream of. Not the kind with lace and laughter and vows exchanged under warm sunlight.

This was something darker. Binding. Brutal.

She looked up at William, but his expression gave nothing away. Cold. Impatient. Calculated.

Then she thought of her father — slumped shoulders, shaky hands, the guilt that hung off him like a second skin.

The man who raised her with bedtime stories and broken promises.

She remembered the way he’d looked when the car pulled up, when he couldn’t even meet her eyes. And even if she hated him for it, even if a part of her screamed that she shouldn’t be here, another part — the foolish, loyal daughter part — whispered that she had to be.

To save him.

Mary's breath hitched. She blinked, but the tears still came.

She'd just gotten the job she’d fought so hard for. She was supposed to be in a classroom right now, not standing in an estate like a glorified bargaining chip, her dreams slipping through her fingers like water.

A sob caught in her throat as the first tear splashed onto the page. Then another. And another.

The contract absorbed her heartbreak without flinching.

William reached forward, brushing the tears from her cheek with surprising gentleness.

But the words that followed weren’t kind.

“It’s not going to be as bad as you think,” he murmured. His fingers were warm, but his voice was ice. “It’s going to be much worse.”

Mary jerked her face away, throat tight.

“You hate me,” she said, the realization cutting deeper than it should have. “You hate my father. That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

William’s jaw flexed. A muscle ticked at his temple.

“Your dad racked up a bill he couldn’t pay,” he said, stepping in, his presence eclipsing everything around her. “And now, you’re going to pay it.”

Then, before she could move, speak, breathe — his hand wrapped around the side of her neck. Not tight enough to hurt, but enough to hold. To command. To remind her exactly who held the power.

“Sign.”

Her pulse thrashed against his fingers. Her hand, limp and unwilling, moved anyway.

She signed her name.

A jagged M. A shaky A.

It was done.

“Good girl,” William said, voice dark and low, almost a purr. “Now you belong to me.”