Theron Hart
The glass tower rose before me like a judgment. A hundred stories of steel and shadow against the night sky, its windows reflecting the city lights as though the building itself were alive and watching. My throat felt tight as I stood at the base, clutching the handle of my briefcase. Inside were useless papers—half-finished accounts, rejected contracts, numbers that no longer added up. None of it mattered anymore. I didn't bring the briefcase because it held answers. I brought it because I didn't know how to walk into a place like this without pretending I still had dignity.
The revolving doors whispered shut behind me, and suddenly I was inside the belly of the beast. Marble floors gleamed like ice under my worn shoes. The air smelled faintly of polish and cold air-conditioning, artificial and clean. My reflection caught in the surface of the glass walls, a tired man in a wrinkled shirt and thinning hair, out of place among the employees who strode past in crisp suits, their shoes clicking with purpose. Not one of them looked at me. Not one of them cared.
I approached the front desk, cleared my throat. "Ther—" My voice cracked, and I forced it steady. "I have an appointment. Hart. Theron Hart."
The receptionist—a young woman with sharp eyeliner and an expression carved out of boredom—glanced at her screen, then at me. She didn't smile. She didn't frown. She simply gestured toward the elevators with a manicured finger.
"Fifteenth floor."
Her tone carried the weight of dismissal. I was already forgotten by the time I turned away.
The elevator doors swallowed me whole, and I pressed the button with damp fingers. As the numbers began to climb, the silence pressed against me. A faint hum of music seeped from hidden speakers, some neutral classical piece that was supposed to calm, but every note scraped against my nerves. I rehearsed the lines in my head, words I had practiced a hundred times in the dark of my empty office. Installments. Just more time. Two hundred a month, maybe less. I'll pay. I swear I'll pay.
When the doors slid open, the fifteenth floor greeted me with glass and light. Offices stretched in every direction, transparent walls offering a cruel view into other lives—men and women hunched over computers, numbers flashing on screens. None of them looked up as I passed. My heart thudded harder with every step.
The loan officer was waiting behind a wide desk, already rifling through a folder. He didn't stand when I entered. Didn't even greet me. Just muttered, "Mr. Hart. Sit."
I obeyed, setting the briefcase at my feet as if it mattered.
He glanced over the papers, clicking his pen against the desk. "Your deadline was six months ago."
"I know," I said quickly. "I know, and I—listen, I just need more time. I can make payments, installments. Two hundred a month, maybe three. Just give me another chance."
The officer looked up, his eyes flat and unimpressed. "Installments won't cover the interest, Mr. Hart. Even if we allowed it—and we won't—you'd die before the debt cleared."
My throat burned. "Please. I have children. I'm trying. I can sell what I have, I'll find work, I'll—"
He sighed, as though I were a nuisance. "We don't make exceptions. Your assets will be collected."
The words struck me like a slap. Panic clawed at my chest, and before I could stop myself, my voice rose. "You can't do this! Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I haven't bled myself dry already? I've given you everything I—"
"Sir. Please calm down. I'm just following protocol. There's nothing I can do." He replied coldly.
"Please sir. You can talk to your superiors. You can help me convince them…" I said as I grabbed his shirt
"Mr. Hart."
The voice did not belong to the man across from me.
It cut through the air, low and steady, silencing me instantly. I turned, and only then realized we weren't alone.
A man stood at the doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, his suit cut so precisely it looked as though the fabric feared to crease. His presence filled the room before he even moved, a gravity that pulled every breath tighter in my lungs. The sharp planes of his face were half-shadowed by the light spilling in from the corridor, but his eyes… his eyes were steel gray, and they fixed on me with the weight of judgment itself.
The loan officer stiffened. "Sir—"
"That's enough," the man said without raising his voice. Yet it carried. Final. "I'll handle this."
The officer faltered, glanced between us, then gathered his papers quickly and slipped from the room. The door shut softly behind him, and suddenly it was only the two of us.
I couldn't breathe.
"Sit," the man said.
I was already sitting, but I realized my body had half-risen in panic. I sank back down, fingers clutching my knees under the desk.
The silence stretched. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass behind him, the city sprawled in glittering indifference. But in here, the world had narrowed to his gaze and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.
Finally, he spoke. "Your name is Theron Hart."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," I managed, my voice rasping.
"You're drowning in debt. Your company has collapsed. You will never repay what you owe." His tone was calm, each word carved clean and precise. "Correct?"
My stomach turned. I forced myself to nod. "I'll find a way. I just need time."
"You said you'd do anything."
I blinked. The words jolted through me like a shock. Had I said that aloud? I didn't remember. My lips parted, dry and trembling. "Yes. I—I would. For my family. For my children. Anything."
The faintest curve touched his mouth, though it wasn't kindness. It was the smile of a man who had been waiting for me to say exactly that.
"One of my employees saw your daughter recently," he said. "From the description I was given…" His pause was deliberate, a knife held just above the flesh. "…she fits what I'm looking for in a woman."
Every thought shattered.
My chest seized, air struggling to enter. My daughter. He couldn't—how could he know? No one here knew her name, her face, anything. She'd never stepped inside these walls. Yet he spoke it with certainty, as if he had pulled her image straight from my mind.
"My… my daughter?" The words scraped out of me.
His eyes gleamed faintly in the low light. "Yes. Your daughter."
I wanted to stand, to shout, but I couldn't move. His gaze pinned me in place.
"I require a wife," he continued, as if discussing stocks or ledgers. "I have some connections to solidify. One that only having a wife would."
The blood roared in my ears. "You can't—you can't mean—"
"I mean exactly what I said." He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the black desk, fingers steepled. "You bring her to me. She marries me. In exchange…" He tapped a finger against the folder that held my debts. "Every cent disappears and I'll revive your company."
The office seemed colder, the walls drawing tighter. My stomach twisted violently. The image of Ciela's face burned behind my eyes. Not her. Never her.
He reached into his jacket and withdrew a card, black as night. He slid it across the desk. Its surface gleamed faintly, catching the overhead light, though it seemed to swallow more than it reflected.
"You'll know how to reach me," he said.
I stared at it, unwilling to touch it, yet my hand moved anyway. The card was cold, unnaturally so, as if it had been waiting for me all along.
I read the content of the card and discovered who this man was.
Laurent Wolfe. The CEO of this company and many others stretched across the country.
The syllables clung to the air long after I stumbled to my feet, long after I fled the office, the black card burning like a brand in my palm.