I walk to the bathroom. The face in the mirror is pale, the dark circles under my eyes stark against my skin. My dark hair is pulled into a tight bun, not a single strand out of place. My green eyes stare back at me, sharp and sleepless. I’m only twenty-fivebut feel twice my age. The prime of my life has been a mere blur. I splash cold water on my face, scrubbing away the exhaustion.
Wake up, Helena.
I get dressed fast. A sharp black skirt. A white silk blouse buttoned to the top. A blazer that makes my shoulders look stronger than they are. I pull my hair back into a tight bun. It hurts my scalp, but I like the pain. It helps me focus.
I need to focus. Today is the deadline for the Venezuelan deal.
I walk downstairs. My heels click on the marble floor, echoing through the house. It’s too quiet.
This hallway was never empty before. My mother loved to host. There were parties every weekend, music drifting from the ballroom, and staff rushing everywhere with trays of champagne. The house was so alive then.
"Martha?" I call out.
Martha, our housekeeper, comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She’s a stout, kind woman who practically raised me, but lately, she looks as tired as I feel. Her uniform is worn out at the edges.
"Morning, Miss Helena," she says, her voice hushed. "Coffee is on the counter."
"Is he up?" I ask.
Her eyes drift to the ceiling, where the primary suite is on the second floor. "I haven't heard a sound. I tried to check in on him an hour ago, but the door is locked."
I exhale slowly. If his door is locked, it means he’s either passed out or gone.
"Let him sleep," I say, grabbing my coffee. "If he wakes up... just make sure he eats something solid."
"He hasn't been eating much, miss," she says softly. "Only drinking."
"I know, Martha. I know."
I grab my bag and walk out, unable to look her in the eye. I can't fix my father. I can barely fix the payroll.
Outside, the sky is dark, with thick clouds rolling in off the ocean. I get into my car, an old Audi that I keep polished so it looks new, and drive toward the city. Usually, I use the drive to the office to think, but today, my head is swirling with numbers.
My phone buzzes on the passenger seat. I don't look at it. I know who it is. The bank. The port. The lawyers. Someone needing something I don’t have.
My stomach twists. I haven’t eaten breakfast. I haven’t eaten a real meal in days.
Two million owed to the bank. Four months behind on port fees. The union threatening to strike if I don't pay them by Friday.
And then there’s the Venezuelan deal.
It’s our last chance. It’s a huge contract to move mining drills. It’s legal, and it pays a lot. The money would be enough to clear our debt and keep us safe for another six months.
If anything goes wrong, the company is dead.
The bank has given us a hard deadline of Monday morning. If the money isn't in the account by 9:00 AM, they take the business.
The client of the Venezuelan deal, Apex Heavy Industries, is already threatening to sue. Their lawyers sent a warning this yesterday: if our ship doesn't leave the harbor by midnight, they’ll cancel the deal.Fifty million dollars, gone.
I pull into the harbor parking lot. The giant cranes of the port loom against the gray sky. This is my kingdom. Or what’s left of it.
The offices of Blackwood Shipping occupy the top two floors of a glass tower overlooking the docks. We used to own thewhole building. Now, we rent the bottom floors to a tech startup to pay the bills.
I walk past the front desk, nodding to the security guard, Frank. He looks worried. Everyone does these days.
I enter my office and look at my assistant, Sarah.
"Status."
