SOFIA
If sleep were a person, mine last night was the kind who shows up late, eats all your snacks, and leaves without paying for the pizza.
I tossed, I turned, I tried counting sheep, then gave up because apparently my brain thought it was more fun to replay yesterday's break room gossip on a loop. You'd think I was under FBI interrogation the way my mind kept circling back to one name.
Adrian Vale.
The cold billionaire.
I've never met him, but somehow he's lodged himself into my subconscious like a bad jingle. I even dreamed about him. Not in the fun, scandalous way either—he was just standing in a tailored suit, silent, staring at me like I owed him money. Then I woke up sweating. Which… probably says more about me than him.
By morning, I'd planned to drown the whole thing in caffeine and call it a lazy Saturday. Maybe ignore my bills until they became next week's problem. But at 8:14 a.m., my phone buzzed with a text from Dad:
DAD: Come over. We need to talk.
No "good morning." No emoji. Just the kind of message that makes your stomach drop before you've even brushed your teeth.
The walk to my parents' house takes ten minutes, but anxiety is already jogging laps in my chest by the time I ring the bell.
Mom answers. She's in her faded robe, hair pinned back loosely, a smile stretched too thin to be convincing. She hugs me tighter than usual and hands me a mug of coffee before I can ask. Her hands linger on mine a second longer than normal. A warning, or maybe a comfort.
Dad's at the dining table. Papers are spread across it like a battlefield. Spreadsheets, overdue notices, payment reminders, the kind of documents that can drain hope just by sitting there. His glasses perch low on his nose, his hair more silver than I remember, his posture sagging like the numbers themselves are too heavy.
"We're in trouble, Sofia," he says without preamble.
"I gathered," I reply, because subtlety isn't my strong suit before caffeine.
He gestures toward the mess of papers. "Two major clients pulled out this quarter. Cash flow is gone. Payroll's been covered with credit."
I skim the sheets. Red numbers. Debt columns stacked like towers about to topple. Words like past due and collections jumping out at me.
"How bad?" My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
He exhales, the sound long and frayed. "Bad enough that certain… parties… have taken an interest."
The way he says parties makes my skin prickle. Not the balloon-and-sheet-cake kind. No, this is the kind of party where men in sharp suits show up without invitations. They don't knock. They wait, silent, until you get the message.
Mom pulls out the chair beside him, sitting close, her hands clenched together. "Your father has a meeting next week," she says softly. "To negotiate."
Negotiate. Such a polite little word, dressed up like it belongs at a business lunch. But everyone at the table knows what it really means: beg. Smile at the men holding your future in their hands, pretend you have leverage, and pray you walk out with at least your pride intact.
My throat feels tight. "So what happens if you miss a payment?"
Dad stiffens. "It's not like that."
"Dad," I say quietly. "It's exactly like that."
The silence after that is thick enough to chew.
Finally, he leans back, rubbing his temple. "We'll figure it out."
His voice is steady, but there's a brittle crack under it, like glass about to shatter.
And because my brain enjoys cruelty, it flickers back to yesterday's gossip. Adrian Vale.
The kind of man who wouldn't need to "figure it out." He'd walk in, make three calls, and the crisis would vanish. I can almost picture him at this table—calculating, unbothered, folding our mess into his control. For a dangerous second, I imagine what it would feel like if someone like him stepped into my father's chaos.
Then I shove the thought away. Men like Adrian Vale don't cross paths with families like mine. Not unless they see something to gain.
Mom clears her throat, her voice brittle. "Your father might need to make some… difficult decisions. We wanted you to be prepared."
Prepared for what? Losing the house? The business? Everything?
I let out a humorless laugh. "So basically, you're giving me time to practice my 'we're fine' face?"
Dad's lips twitch, but it's not amusement. It's exhaustion.
We talk numbers for another half hour, but it feels pointless. Like trying to patch a sinking boat with paper towels. I watch my father's hands, how steady they stay as he flips through invoices, but the skin around his eyes betrays him—tired, worn, cracked with strain. Mom keeps fussing with the edge of her robe, her worry spilling out in small, fidgeting movements.
By the time I leave, my coffee's gone cold, my head is pounding, and a sharp weight presses against my chest.
The winter air outside is a slap. My parents' street looks the same—quiet, lined with bare trees—but I feel like I'm seeing it through glass, separated from the life I thought was solid. Every shadow looks heavier.
Halfway down the block, I spot a black car idling by the curb. Sleek. Expensive. Out of place here. The kind of car you only see parked outside high-rise hotels, not suburban houses.
Through the tinted glass, I catch the faint outline of the driver. He's staring. Not casually, not curious. Just blank. The kind of stare that strips you down to data points. A stare that makes you walk faster without meaning to.
My pulse trips over itself. I tell myself it's nothing. Maybe a rideshare. Maybe a neighbor's guest. But even after I turn the corner, I can still feel it—eyes lingering, calculating.
By the time I slam my apartment door behind me, my hands are shaking.
I drop onto the couch, staring at the ceiling while Dad's words echo in my head. Certain parties have taken an interest.
And underneath it, I hear another echo, quieter but sharper. Two voices in the break room, whispering like the name itself was dangerous.
Adrian Vale.
Coincidence, I tell myself. It's just coincidence.
But the word feels thin. A shield made of paper.
Because cracks don't just happen. They spread because someone keeps pressing against them, waiting for the right moment to break everything apart.
And for the first time, I wonder if what's happening to my family isn't random bad luck at all.
Maybe it's the beginning of a game.
The kind where you don't even realize you're playing—until you've already lost.