The pain he expected never came.
When Chase finally registered what had happened, the men who had cornered him were already sprawled on the ground, clutching their stomachs and groaning.
Someone had saved him.
Chase looked up.
A familiar, cool face came into view.
It was her.
Wren Mercer glanced down at him, her expression unreadable.
"Can you stand?"
Fighting the dizziness, Chase nodded. He braced his right hand against the edge of the planter and forced himself upright.
Only then did he notice the man standing behind her.
Dressed entirely in black, his face was hard and expressionless. His eyes were sharp and dangerous, the kind you usually saw on screen when a character was meant to kill without hesitation.
Chase looked away and spoke quietly.
"Thank you."
Wren shifted her gaze to the men on the ground.
"An old enemy coming for you?"
"No," Chase said, coughing as he pressed a hand to his chest. Pain flared across his back, making him wince. "They're here for money."
Wren raised an eyebrow.
"How much do you owe?"
Chase lowered his eyes and stayed silent for a few seconds. This was his problem. He had no interest in broadcasting his downfall.
"Thank you for earlier," he said finally. "But this is something I can handle myself."
"This is how you handle it?" Wren's eyes swept over him, taking in his bruised, unsteady state.
Chase felt a flicker of embarrassment. If he had money, things would never have reached this point.
Wren stepped forward. In the dim light, her presence felt cold and sharp, like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
"A son is only legally responsible for a father's debts if he inherits the estate," she said calmly.
"He didn't inherit anything. Which means he has no obligation to repay those debts. I suggest this is the last time you come looking for him."
Chase froze.
He and this woman barely knew each other. How did she know about his family?
Then it clicked. She must have overheard them earlier. That was the only explanation.
The men exchanged looks.
With someone backing Chase, they knew pushing further tonight would get them nowhere. More importantly, the woman in front of them was clearly not someone to mess with. And the man behind her was worse.
They wanted money, not to die for it.
Slowly, they hauled themselves up from the ground.
"That may be true," one of them said stubbornly, "but our money can't just disappear. If you don't give us something today, we can't just walk away."
Chase felt terrible. His body was at its limit. He just wanted this to end.
"I've said it already," he said hoarsely. "Give me time. When I earn the money, I'll pay you back in full. Chasing me now won't get you anything."
When you have nothing, you stop being afraid of threats.
The atmosphere fell quiet.
Just as Chase felt his strength slipping away, one of the men finally spoke.
"Fine. We don't want to make things harder than they already are. Give us a deadline. Where do we find you when the time comes?"
Chase was silent for a moment.
"Five years. My father kept records with your information. I'll contact you then."
The men exchanged looks, frustration written all over their faces.
They had figured it out by now. Victor Ford had left nothing behind. If there were money hidden somewhere, his son would not be living in a rundown complex.
"Five years is too long," one of them said.
"Three years. If you agree, we'll trust you this once."
Chase clenched his teeth.
"Fine. Deal."
Once the men finally left, Chase's body swayed.
The dizziness made his breathing uneven.
But Wren was still there. Leaving without a word felt rude.
"Thank you for what you did," he said. "It's late. I should go."
Wren smiled faintly, as if deliberately stalling.
"You're not curious why I showed up here?"
Chase had no energy to wonder about her motives. Whether she had passed by or followed him meant nothing to him. All he wanted was rest.
"It's none of my business."
As he turned to leave, Wren casually flicked a set of keys in front of him.
"Without these," she said, "how are you getting inside?"
Chase stopped.
They were his keys.
When had he lost them?
And his ID. When had that gone missing too? Where had it ended up?
He had no memory of it at all.
But he was too exhausted to think about it now.
"Thanks," Chase said, reaching for them.
The keys shifted just out of reach.
Wren closed her fingers around them.
"How do you prove they're yours?"
Chase's face went pale in the shadows.
Something about her words made his chest tighten.
Hadn't he already done enough to prove he wasn't trying to run from his debts? Now he had to prove ownership of his own keys too?
He was exhausted.
He didn't want to argue with a stranger anymore. He would rather sleep in the stairwell than explain himself again.
"If you want them," he said quietly, "keep them."
He stepped past her on unsteady legs.
After two steps, the ground seemed to tilt. His vision blurred, doubled, then went black.
His body collapsed.
Wren looked down at him with mild interest.
"Interesting," she said softly.
"Even this desperate, and he's still clinging to his pride. What a waste."
She turned slightly.
"Take him back."
"Yes."
"Forty-degree fever," the private doctor said.
"Severe exhaustion and exposure. He needs rest. A few days should be enough."
Inside the apartment at Résidence Montmartre, Wren sat by the bed, watching as the doctor checked his temperature, set up the IV, and treated the abrasions on his wrist.
When everything was done, the man on the bed still showed no signs of waking.
He really was completely worn out.
Understandable.
Two months ago, he had been untouchable. Now he was juggling school, multiple jobs, a dying parent, and crushing debt. Anyone would break under that weight.
When Chase finally woke, the sun was already high in the sky.
Light poured through the window.
He shot upright.
He was late.
Then he saw the unfamiliar room, and his mind stalled.
"Relax," a voice said calmly.
"The café owner called this morning. I took care of it. You're excused."
Chase turned his head.
By the floor-to-ceiling window, Wren lay back in a lounge chair, eyes closed, soaking in the sunlight.
His memories slowly came back.
A dull ache pulsed through his wrist. He looked down to see it wrapped in gauze. The back of his hand was taped where an IV needle had been.
Chase lifted his head, a complicated feeling settling in his chest.
He barely knew this woman. They didn't even know each other's names. Why had she helped him?
He didn't want to think about it.
Throwing the blanket aside, he got out of bed and took a few steps forward.
"Thank you," he said.
"How much was the medical bill? I'll pay you back."
Wren Mercer lifted a delicate, cut-out folding fan and angled it over her eyes, blocking the harsh sunlight. After a moment, she lowered it and looked at Chase, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
"So this is how you thank someone for saving your life?" she asked calmly.
"If it weren't for me, you could've died on the street last night and no one would've known."
Chase looked at her. His long lashes trembled faintly.
"Then how do you want me to thank you?" he asked quietly.
Wren stood up.
She was tall. Even without heels, she nearly reached his brows.
She studied his eyes with open interest, a faint smile playing on her lips.
"How about repaying it with yourself?"
Chase took a step back, instinctively putting distance between them.
Her words dragged his memory back to the night before.
Three hundred thousand for one night.
In his mind now, Wren Mercer was no different from the women he had seen in clubs, tangled up with male prostitutes.
His brows drew together. The disgust in his eyes was undisguised.
"I already told you," he said coldly.
"You've got the wrong person. Whether you want the medical money or not is your choice. Once I walk out that door, we're even."
"You're very good at keeping accounts," Wren said, watching his straight spine and stubborn pride. Then she laughed softly.
Interesting.
She really wanted to see what he'd look like once that pride finally broke.
"The medical bill was one thousand euros," she said, pulling out her phone and opening the payment screen, holding it out to him.
"Transfer it."
Chase was startled.
What kind of medicine cost that much?
A few basic pills would've been enough.
It hurt to pay, but he didn't want to owe her anything. Without another word, he transferred the money.
Back in his rental, Chase stood in the windowless basement room and let out a quiet breath.
No sunlight. No warmth.
It suited him.
He was living in the dark now. Someone like him didn't deserve light.
Physically, he felt much better after the treatment. But a heavier problem pressed down on him.
Tomorrow was the final deadline to schedule the surgery.
Three hundred thousand euros.
Where was he supposed to find that kind of money?
He opened his contacts and scrolled through them from top to bottom. Then, irritated, he tossed the phone onto the bed.
There was no one.
After sitting there in silence for a while, he picked the phone back up anyway. Like using a dead horse as a last resort, he dialed a number.
"Uncle, my mom—"
"Chase," a woman's voice cut in sharply.
"I was just about to call you. Your uncle is sick. We've spent all our savings on his treatment. Could you take out some of the money your father left behind and help us? We can't just let your uncle die, can we?"
The words felt like a knife stabbing straight into Chase's chest.
When a wall collapses, everyone pushes.
They hadn't helped him, and now they were reaching for what little remained.
He clenched his jaw.
"Let him go," he said flatly.
"He's lived long enough."
"You—how can you say something so heartless—"
He hung up and deleted the contact.
"Aunt…"
"Chase," another voice said gently, almost apologetic.
"Your uncle invested everything in stocks. It's all tied up. I only have two hundred euros in savings. I'll send it to you. Buy your mother something nutritious."
"Sir…"
"I'm sorry, Chase. Things are tight here too. The real estate market's dead. Workers line up every day asking for wages. I really can't—"
One by one, the contacts disappeared.
Chase almost laughed.
Only two months had passed, and everyone had already forgotten how his father once supported them.
He laughed —
and then tears welled up.
He covered his eyes, but the bitterness and helplessness wouldn't stop.
The airless room pressed down on him. He hadn't eaten all day. His stomach ached.
After deleting the last name, he took a deep breath.
Now he truly had no one.
Outside, he bought a small bowl of soup. The warmth finally eased the pain in his stomach.
He wiped the moisture from his eyes with a napkin. When he looked up again, there was a quiet desolation in his gaze.
To relieve the pressure in his chest, he paid and got on his electric scooter, riding aimlessly through the city.
Cars streamed past him, one after another.
A sudden thought rose uninvited.
If he lay down in front of one of them…
Would his mother's surgery no longer be a problem?
The thought churned, dark and restless, making his body tense.
Near a park, he stopped the scooter and glanced at the traffic.
A shiver ran through him.
Hurting innocent people for money —
when had he become this vile?
He wandered the streets for hours. When he finally came back to himself, he froze.
Résidence Montmartre.
Why was he here?
He turned the scooter around and rode a short distance — then squeezed the brakes again.
Three hundred thousand.
Did he really have to sell his dignity to get it?
But without that money, his mother would die.
He stood there in silence.
Family on one side.
Dignity on the other.
The balance in his heart had already begun to tip.
The top-floor door at Résidence Montmartre was closed.
Chase stood in front of it.
He wanted to leave, but his legs wouldn't move.
He wanted to knock, but he had no courage.
Time dragged on. Each second tightened his chest.
Just as he raised his hand again, footsteps approached from behind. The elevator stopped.
Someone came to a halt in front of him.
"Waiting for me?"
Chase looked up at Wren Mercer. His lips trembled.
After a long moment, he forced the words out.
"One night," he said hoarsely.
"Three hundred thousand. Does the offer still stand?"