I did not go with him that night.
Even though his presence lingered in the storm like a shadow I could never escape, I found myself stumbling back to the only place I knew home. Or what was left of it.
The rain followed me all the way to the small apartment in the worn down neighborhood of South Side Chicago. The streetlamps flickered weakly against the dark sky, and the air smelled of wet concrete and despair. My steps were heavy, my shoes squelching with each move, as though the ground itself wanted to remind me of the weight of the decision already forced on me.
When I finally pushed open the door, my brothers were the first to see me.
"Elena!" Matthew rushed forward, his tall frame blocking the dim light of the room. He pulled me into a hug so tight that for a moment I thought I could finally breathe. Mark joined him a second later, his arms wrapping around both of us. The warmth of their embrace clashed violently with the cold storm still clinging to my skin. And for the first time I thought I was happy.
"You came back," Mark whispered, his voice trembling. But they knew that I wanted to run . I wonder how they find out. And yet they welcomed me.
But not everyone welcomed me.
At the sound of my wet shoes on the floor, my father rose from his seat near the window like he 'd been waiting for my return . I was wondering how long he 'd be waiting. His eyes once the kindest I knew were now empty, dulled by years of debts, bottles, and unspoken regrets. He looked at me only once. Then, without a word, he walked past us and out the door, leaving the scent of cheap whiskey and silence behind.
I wanted to run after him, to grab his sleeve and beg him to say something anything. But my legs refused. A part of me knew I would only find rejection in his eyes.
Ashamed, I lowered my head and whispered to my brothers, "I need to rest."
They said nothing, only nodded, their faces etched with worry, but they let me go. But wished they didn't. I wanted to hear everything they know that I never knew. I wanted to know if Jibril had also spoken to them behind me like he did with his boss. The man my father owe. But I walked instead to my lonely and most quiet place . My room.
My room welcomed me with a stillness that made my chest ache. It was small, humble, and filled with the memories of a girl who once dreamed of a different life. The faded curtains fluttered with the breeze, carrying the scent of rain inside. On the wooden shelf were trinkets Mama had given me a pressed flower in glass, a little ceramic angel, and a picture frame holding the only family photo we ever took together. Mama was in the middle, her smile soft and brave, as though she already knew the weight the future would demand from her children.
I sat on the edge of my bed, my eyes roaming the room. Every corner held a memory. Some sweet. Some sharp enough to bleed me.
My gaze stopped at another picture propped carelessly on the desk. Jibril's face stared back at me, frozen in time with that same smile I once thought was meant only for me. My chest tightened. I reached for it slowly, my fingers brushing the glass, and for a fleeting second, I wanted to believe again that he cared. That he meant it when he whispered promises of escape.
But then I remembered his voice that night, the way he stepped back, the way he let me break while he saved himself.
With a sudden rush of anger, I shoved the photo away. It toppled, hitting the floor with a crack. My breath came hard, my hands trembling.
He never loved me. He never truly meant to save me.
Hot tears filled my eyes, but I blinked them away, pressing my fists into my lap. I would not cry for Jibril anymore. He was not worth the salt of my tears.
I leaned back against the bedframe, staring at the ceiling where water stains marked years of leaks. My thoughts drifted to Mama and Papa, their marriage that was less love and more survival. Mama had carried the family with her fragile hands until sickness stole her. Papa… Papa drowned himself in debts and silence.
And me? I was about to step into a marriage not of love, not of choice, but of chains.
Vincent Romano. That was the name Jibril had whispered with fear. A man whose wealth and power stretched across Chicago like a net, catching anyone who dared cross him. My father owed him. And I was the payment.
I closed my eyes and whispered into the stillness, "Would my marriage with him be better or worse than theirs?"
But the answer came quickly. It would not be better. It could never be better. Because Vincent did not want me. He wanted what my father owed him, and he wanted to remind the world that debts to him were never forgiven.
I turned to the small window beside my bed. Outside, the rain was slowing, but the city lights of Chicago still glimmered like watchful eyes. Somewhere in that glittering skyline, he was waiting. Waiting for me to become his.
A shiver ran down my spine.
I pulled Mama's blanket over my shoulders, trying to hold onto the warmth of her memory. Until the memory become real again . I missed her . But no matter how tight I wrapped myself in it, I could not shake the truth pressing down on me.
I was no longer Elena, the daughter, the sister, the dreamer , the talented painter in our small world .
I was Elena, the debt.
And tomorrow, the chains would tighten