Page 10 of Severe Husband Warning

CALLA

The knock comes just after dawn.

I look up from the kettle before it has the chance to boil over. At this hour, our little house is usually quiet, filled only by the wind slipping through loose shutters and Father’s uneven breathing from the cot beside the hearth.

Three measured knocks break the silence.

Behind me, the blankets rustle.

“Calla?” Father asks, his voice still thick with sleep.

“I’ll see who it is.”

Little morning light reaches our home. Even now, the room glows only with the orange flicker of the hearth and the pale blue flashes of distant lightning squeezing through the cracks in the shutters.

Outside, a demon wearing House Malakor’s colors stands with two retainers. His coat is immaculate despite the red dust drifting through the narrow streets. The steward tilts his head the barest fraction.

“Calla Alder?”

My stomach tightens. He waits for no response. Reaching into the leather satchel at his side, he withdraws a folded parchment sealed in black wax.

“For Adair Alder.”

My gaze lands on Lord Malakor’s crest pressed deeply into the seal.

For weeks, I’ve convinced myself that my request for another extension was still waiting on someone’s desk. The black wax tells me otherwise.

“I requested another extension.”

“You did,” he replied, courteous but detached. “It was denied.”

The parchment feels heavier than it should when I finally accept it. The wax breaks beneath my thumb with a dry crack that seems unnaturally loud inside the quiet house.

The words blur together before resolving into dreadful clarity.

FINAL WRIT OF SEIZURE

Collection authorized under the statutes governing unpaid noble debt.

Execution to occur three days from the date of issue.

Debtor: Adair Alder.

Classification: Recoverable Asset.

Estimated labor value adjusted to reflect current physical condition.

Heat rushes through me so suddenly the parchment creases in my hand.

Somewhere inside the ledgers of House Malakor, my father no longer exists as the man who built half the lower conduits of Ti’lith. He has become a valuation instead of a man.

I have never hated ink before.

The steward waits while I absorb the contents of the writ, his hands folded neatly in front of him.

“I trust everything is clear,” he says at last.

I lower the parchment carefully, afraid that if I grip it any tighter I’ll tear it in half.