ELENA HARPER
The rain pounded hard against the grimy window of Elena's tiny apartment.
Inside, the chaos she felt was just like the rain as she stared at the eviction notice clutched in her trembling hands, the red ink blurring..
It was official now—thirty days to vacate.
But thirty days might as well have been thirty seconds or thirty months, and she still would have no way. She had no money, no plan, and even no one left to turn to. At twenty-five, Elena Harper had imagined her life unfolding like one of those glossy novels she devoured in stolen moments—adventures in the city, a career that mattered, maybe even a love that swept her off her feet. Instead, reality had delivered a brutal slap: debt, despair, and the slow unraveling of everything she held dear.
It started six months ago, innocently enough.
Elena had been a rising star at the boutique marketing firm in downtown Chicago, her creative pitches earning her a modest but steady salary. She shared the apartment with her best friend, Mia, splitting rent and dreams over late-night glasses of cheap wine. But then Mia got the offer of a lifetime—a job in New York that promised fame and fortune in the fashion world.
"This is my chance, El," Mia had said, eyes sparkling with excitement.
"You get it, right? We'll stay in touch." Elena had hugged her tightly, masking the pang of loneliness that followed. The rent had become her sole burden, but she managed, scraping by with freelance gigs while job hunting.
Then came the layoffs, everything crashing down suddenly.
The firm, hit by a market downturn, cut half the staff. Elena's department was decimated. "It's not personal," her boss had said, avoiding her eyes as he handed over the severance check—a paltry sum that vanished faster than mist in the morning sun.
If all of that was not as bad as it already was, the bills piled up: student loans from her graphic design degree, credit card debt from those 'just in case' purchases, and now, medical bills adding to all of it for her mother's ongoing treatment back in their small hometown of Rockford.
Her mom, the woman who had raised her single-handedly after Dad walked out, was battling cancer. The treatments were experimental, expensive, and not covered by insurance. Elena sent every spare dollar home, watching her savings dwindle to nothing.
She tried everything.
Side hustles—waitressing at a dingy diner, tutoring online, even selling handmade jewelry on Etsy. But the city was merciless. Freelance clients ghosted her after initial payments, the diner cut her shifts due to slow business, and her jewelry? It barely covered the cost of materials. Her phone buzzed incessantly with collection calls, each one a dagger to her pride. Last week, her car had been repossessed—a beat-up Honda she had bought after college. Public transit was her new reality, but even that felt like a luxury when fares ate into her grocery budget.
That night, as thunder rumbled overhead, Elena slumped onto her threadbare couch, the eviction notice crumpling in her fist. The apartment was a mess: takeout containers from the previous day's 'meal,' sketches scattered across the coffee table from a failed attempt at a portfolio update, and a half-empty bottle of wine she had splurged on for courage. Yet, she was so distressed that she did not even notice them.
All she knew was that she needed a miracle.
Something—anything—to stop the freefall. Tears stung her eyes as she scrolled through her contacts. Who could she call? Her mom? No, that would only worry her. Old college friends? They were all struggling too, or worse, living the lives she envied from afar on social media.
A knock at the door jolted her upright.
It was late—past ten on Friday night.
Who could it be?
The caretaker, maybe, complaining about the leaky faucet again?
Or the landlord, demanding rent early?
Heart pounding, she wiped her face and approached the door, peering through the peephole. A man stood there holding an umbrella to shield himself from the rain, tall and impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that screamed money. His dark hair was slicked back, and even in the dim hallway light, his features were sharp and commanding.
Hesitant, she cracked the door. "Can I help you?"
The man smiled, a curve of lips that was both charming and predatory. "Elena Harper? I'm Alexander Voss. May I come in?"
Her stomach twisted. How did he know her name?
Voss... the name rang a vague bell, but she couldn't place it.
"I... uh, sure."
She stepped aside, suddenly acutely aware of the chaos around her. He entered with the grace of someone who owned the world, his cologne—a subtle, expensive scent of sandalwood and spice—filling the small space.
Alexander's eyes swept the room as he took off his raincoat and the umbrella, his entire frame dry as he took in the disarray without judgment, or so she hoped. He was quite handsome up close: piercing blue eyes, a jawline that could cut glass, and a presence that made the apartment feel even smaller. He must have been in his early thirties, exuding the kind of confidence that came from never having to worry about eviction notices.
"I apologize for the intrusion," he said, his voice smooth as velvet, with a faint accent she couldn't pinpoint—European, perhaps? "But I'm here because I believe I can help you."
Elena crossed her arms, a defensive barrier.
"Help me? Do I know you? How did you find me?"
He gestured to the couch, waiting for her nod before sitting.
She perched on the edge of a chair opposite him, feeling underdressed in her faded jeans and oversized sweater. "I make it my business to know people in... interesting situations and help them," he replied cryptically. "Your story came across my desk. A talented young woman on the brink, with so much potential wasted on circumstance. It's tragic, really."
Her cheeks burned.
"My story? Who told you? And what do you want? If this is some kind of scam—"
Alexander chuckled softly, a sound that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. It wasn't mocking; it was genuine amusement.
"I'm not here to scam you, Elena," he said, leaning forward, his gaze locking onto hers. "I'm here with an opportunity. One that could change everything for you."
She swallowed hard, her mind racing. "What kind of opportunity?"
His eyes darkened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable.
"It's unconventional, I'll admit. Risky, even. But it pays extraordinarily well. Enough to clear your debts, secure your mother's care, and give you the fresh start you deserve. More than that—it could open doors you never imagined."
Elena's pulse quickened. She knew that she should be wary; this man was a stranger, a powerhouse who could crush her with a word. Yet, his presence was magnetic, drawing her in despite the alarm bells.
"Why me? You don't even know me."
"Oh, but I do," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "I've seen your work. Your designs, your passion. You're more than this." He waved a hand at the room. "And personally... I find you intriguing. Beautiful, resilient. Qualities that are rare."
"But what's the catch?" she pressed, though part of her did not want to know, too terrified to. The promise in his words was intoxicating.
He stood, towering over her, extending a hand. His touch, when she took it tentatively, was electric—firm, warm, sending jolts up her arm. "The catch is commitment. Total, unwavering commitment to the arrangement. No questions until the right moment, no backing out. In return, your life transforms overnight."
The rain outside intensified, mirroring the storm in her chest.
Say yes to what?
Her mind screamed caution, but her gut—her aching, empty gut—yearned for salvation. Just as she opened her mouth to respond, to refuse because she did not know what this was, the door burst open with a crash, and a burly figure stormed in, eyes wild with rage.
"Elena! You think you can hide from me? You owe me!"
It was Rocco, the loan shark she had borrowed from in a moment of weakness. His goons flanked him, and in his hand gleamed a knife.
Time froze, and only Rocco's snarl echoed then:
"Pay up, or else."