“You were just a kid,” he goes on, flicking ash onto the floor without care. “Still raw from whatever hell you’d been through. Trying to crawl your way out of your mother’s mess. When you came to me begging on her behalf, you swore you’d pay three grand a month.”
He pauses, letting the number settle between us like dust.
“I don’t do monthly payments, especially not with crumbs like that. But something about you…” He tips his head slightly. “You had this look in your eyes—haunted, broken, desperate. Couldn’t blame you, really. Shitty mother. Shittier past. And for a moment, I thought, maybe you’d be different. Maybe you’d actually pull through.”
His gaze sharpens. “So I took the deal. I trusted you.”
His smirk returns, slow and ugly.
“And you failed me.”
The words land hard. Like bricks.
“For two years, you were on and off. Some months, payment came through. Some months, nothing. My collectors would show up, and your mother would just shrug and say you didn’t send anything. Over and over. A game of excuses.”
I can feel my hands trembling in my lap. My stomach twists.
“Out of $80k…” He chuckles bitterly. “Only twenty was paid.”
My chest tightens.
I want to scream. I want to grab my mother and shake her. Shout at her for putting me in this mess.
I want to tell him that I’ve been paying. Every time I got a paycheck, it went first to her, before food, before rent, before anything else. I’ve worked myself bloody. Picked up extra shifts until my body gave out. Skipped meals and sleep, falling asleep on textbooks just to wake up two hours later and run to the café. I’ve spent weekends scrubbing floors, cleaning bathrooms for cash.
I gave up everything—just to pay off her fucking debt.
My gaze shifts to my mother.
She won’t meet my eyes at first. Her head is bowed, her shoulders hunched like the weight of all her shame is finally pressing her into the earth. But then, slowly, she looks up and our eyes meet.
Red-rimmed. Exhausted. Older than I remember. And full of something that makes my chest ache.
Sadness.
It’s not enough to undo everything she’s done. But for a split second, I see the version of her I used to believe in. The womanI cried for when she disappeared. The one I used to think would save me.
She opens her mouth. I know what she’s about to say. She’s going to tell him. Tell Oliver that I’ve been sending the money. That I’ve been paying the price for her choices, for her lies.
Without thinking, my hand shoots out and grabs hers. She flinches, then stares down at where our hands meet. My fingers grip hers tightly. She looks back up at me, confused. But I shake my head once.
Don’t. Don’t say it. Don’t make this worse. Don’t make him turn on you.
She nods—barely. Just once. But it’s enough.
I look away and face Oliver again.
He’s watching us like we’re putting on a play for his amusement. His eyes gleam with something cold and ugly. Then he sighs and crosses one leg over the other, casual, like he doesn’t have a damn care in the world.
“After I came down here personally,” he begins, flicking ash from his cigarette with a smile, “and told your sweet mother I’d blow your head off if payments weren’t made… suddenly, the money started flowing again.”
His grin widens.
“I was grateful. Really. Thought you’d finally grown a pair. But what I didn’t expect—” he leans forward slightly, his tone tightening “was the frequency. Weekly deposits. Five thousand at a time.”
His gaze slides over to my mother.
“You never asked how your son suddenly started making that kind of money?” he says smoothly, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t think it was strange?”
