Chapter 4: What I Owe, What I Risk

While recovering, I received a secret letter from the Langleys.

It arrived late at night. Slipped under my door. I recognized Mrs. Langley’s handwriting instantly.

It said that trouble had broken out on the northern edge of Maple Heights, and repeated requests for help from the Whitmores had gone unanswered. Mrs. Langley hoped I could persuade Harrison to lend aid.

Her words were careful. But the desperation was clear. I felt the old weight settle on my shoulders.

They wanted me to whisper in his ear—clearly, they overestimated my influence.

I almost laughed. If only they knew.

Still, I went to see Harrison.

I rehearsed what I’d say, but nothing sounded right. In the end, I just knocked and hoped for the best.

Not knowing how to please him, I asked the staff what he liked.

I cornered the housekeeper, hoping for some secret insight.

The old housekeeper who’d served him for years finally said, “He likes Charlotte.”

Her answer was blunt, almost apologetic. I nodded, not surprised.

Charlotte was well-read. She painted, played piano, danced…

She was everything I wasn’t. I tried not to let it bother me.

All things I wasn’t good at. In my two years at the Langley house, I’d only managed to learn the basics of etiquette. As for music or art… I barely knew the basics.

I could fake a curtsy, but that was about it.

So, I spent a lot of money to have someone bring me a painting from out of state.

It took weeks to track down something that even resembled Charlotte’s style. I spared no expense.

It wasn’t by a famous artist, but the style was very similar to Charlotte’s.

I hoped it would be enough, but I wasn’t holding my breath.

The person who helped me was the college kid I’d rescued in the street that day.

He showed up at my door, grinning sheepishly. I barely recognized him out of his wrinkled shirt.

His name was Caleb Monroe. He’d just graduated at the top of his class. Now he was an intern at City Hall. On his first day, he came to thank me for saving him.

He handed me the painting with both hands, face flushed with pride.

But he refused to take any money, only saying, “It’s an honor to help, Mrs. Whitmore.”

His sincerity was almost embarrassing. I thanked him anyway.

I kept the painting. Planned to give it to Harrison on his birthday. And ask for his help then.

I wrapped it carefully, tucking it away until the right moment.

But as it turned out, Preston’s gift that day was also a piece of Charlotte’s artwork.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. I tried to hide my disappointment.

That night, after the party, Harrison—tipsy and moody—opened Preston’s gift, then unwrapped mine.

He sat at his desk. Surrounded by empty glasses. His eyes glassy with drink.

He stared at it for a moment, then looked up and sneered, “What are you doing? Copying her now?”

His words were slurred. But the bitterness was clear.

I was stunned, too. How could it be such a coincidence?

I opened my mouth to explain, but the words stuck in my throat.

Normally, I’d just nod and walk away. But now that I needed his help, I had to say something nice.

I forced myself to meet his eyes, willing him to understand.

“I just thought it would make you happy.”

The words felt inadequate, but I had nothing else to offer.

That was the best I could come up with.

I waited, heart pounding, for his reaction.

“If you wanted to make me happy, why give me something from someone else?” He narrowed his eyes, picked up my painting, and—

He didn’t wait for an answer. The room was silent. Except for the sound of tearing canvas.

Rip—

The thin canvas was torn to shreds.

The sound was final, brutal. I flinched, but didn’t look away.

“You want me to help Maple Heights with the trouble up north, don’t you?” He saw right through me, leaning lazily against the table. “Something that big—you’d better prove you’re serious.”

He smirked. Dared me to bargain. I set my jaw. Refused to back down.

I asked, “What do you want, Harrison?”

My voice was steady, but my hands shook behind my back.

He replied carelessly, “The thing you value most… what can you offer?”

His words were a challenge, meant to push me to my limits.

…

I let the silence stretch, thinking hard. There was only one answer.

After a moment’s thought, I said, “My life.”

I watched his face carefully, searching for any sign of emotion.

He snorted, probably thinking I was joking.

He leaned back, arms crossed. A crooked smile on his lips.

“Fine, give it to me then. I just got a new hunting knife—need something worthy to christen the blade. You’ll do.”

His words were meant to shock, but I didn’t flinch.

Before he finished, I’d already drawn my pocketknife and pressed it to my neck, right where the attacker’s old scar still lingered.

The blade was cold. Familiar. I met his eyes, daring him to call my bluff.

“Fine!” I said, staring at him. “But you’d better keep your word.”

My voice was steel, unwavering. I wasn’t afraid—not anymore.

As soon as the blade touched my skin, Harrison lunged and grabbed my wrist.

His grip was fierce. Desperate. For the first time, I saw real fear in his eyes.

“Are you crazy?” he gasped, breathing hard. “You were really going to do it?”

He shook, his knuckles white around my wrist. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the air thick with things neither of us could say.

I didn’t know if that scared him or me more.