The final year of college is supposed to be bittersweet. For most, it's a goodbye to an era they've been desperate to finish, yet they feel torn about leaving the fun behind. For others, it means fracturing friend groups and separating from partners. But for me, it was staring at a message I knew was set to change my life for the worse.
"Hey, little sis. Touching down in Chicago tonight. Can't wait to see you. Catch up and all that. Also, you aren't young anymore, right? Ripe and all set for marriage, ain't you?"
A normal person might stare at the message and roll their eyes, but not me. I knew exactly what it meant. Marcus, my stepbrother, had made jokes like this before.
Usually, he'd stumble home drunk, rambling about how he could sell me for a few thousand bucks, only to later claim it was just a joke. But I knew it wasn't. It never was. Because one day, when he was stone-cold sober, he had asked, "How much do you think you'd be worth? My college buddy says he has someone who buys young girls like you for a mouthwatering amount. Just thinking aloud."
He had said it like he was weighing a business deal. Back then, he was sober. I bet he was sober now, too. And I bet he was for real this time.
"Earth to Daph!" Omar's voice snapped me back to reality.
I blinked, remembering I was in a club celebrating our final year. Omar wrapped his arm around me, pulling me flush against him, trying to get me to sway my hips like I had been twenty minutes ago. But I was stiff, the weight of Marcus's message pressing down on my chest.
I looked around. Mira was throwing champagne in the air, the foam catching the neon lights like falling stars as she jumped to the beat. Faridat was in the corner, grinding against a guy she had met thirty minutes ago. And Omar was still trying to get me back in the mood.
"I—I don't feel well," I lied, pulling away from him.
I stumbled out to catch my breath. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, fighting to type a response, but I kept deleting the words. Nothing I said would change his mind. Whatever sick decision he had made was final.
The nausea I had faked to leave the club quickly became real. My stomach twisted as I made it to my apartment. I debated crashing into bed immediately or drinking until I saw stars, but the decision was made for me when I walked into the kitchen.
He was sitting by the counter, nursing a glass of my cheap wine.
"Marcus?" I froze, closing the door behind me.
He wore an Armani suit—probably rented—and his dirty blonde hair was combed back. He looked like a responsible person for the first time since I'd known him.
"Hey, little sis. You look amazing." His face split into a grin. He stood and walked toward me, stumbling slightly.
Ah. Drunk again.
He closed the distance and wrapped his arms around me, trapping me in a bone-shattering hug. He smelled of cigarettes, mint, and cheap cologne. I struggled out of his embrace.
"How did you get in?" I asked, eyeing him warily.
"What do you mean, 'how'? You gave me a spare key, remember?"
"Yes. For emergencies only. Not to waltz in and steal my wine."
He chuckled roughly. "I'm not stealing your wine. What is yours is mine, remember?"
I glared.
"Your wine," he said, waving the bottle in my face, "your everything... and your body."
"My body is not yours," I snapped, though my lips quivered.
"It is," he countered, taking another gulp.
"What do you want, Marcus?"
"What? I can't come visit my sister?"
I rolled my eyes, crossing the room to flip on the main light. "You and I both know you aren't here to just 'visit.' Spill it."
I walked to the sink, brushing past him to pour myself a glass of water.
"What do you say about getting married?"
I downed the water in one go, wiped my mouth, and turned to pin him with a sharp glare. "I say, 'no, thanks.' "
"You aren't getting any younger, sister. You are what? Twenty-three? You should be married with two kids by now. Remember Flora? She got married last year and she's already carrying her first child."
"What is your point? I am not Flora. I don't wish to get married or carry children yet, and I'm fucking twenty-one!"
I stepped out of the kitchen, rage boiling over.
Not yet. Just not yet.
Marcus followed me into the living room.
"You are still very much ripe for marriage. It is not too early. I'm sure that is what Dad would want."
I spun around, my red waves whipping against my shoulders. "No! Dad would want you to quit gambling and do something meaningful with your life."
"Oh, please. He wouldn't give a fuck as long as I was catering for you and feeding you."
"Feeding me? Are you kidding me?! I am feeding myself!" I bellowed.
"I fed you when it was just you and I!" He boomed, his voice vibrating through my tiny apartment. "I fed you! I clothed you! I was just twenty, but I worked five part-time jobs to put food on your table."
"And then you began gambling," I breathed, the fight draining out of me into a cold realization. "You sold everything we owned. You sold drugs. You contemplated selling me off..."
"I had to survive."
"And I'm surviving, too. Without you. I've been clothing myself since I was eighteen, and I'm doing quite fine. So please, let me be. I don't want to be associated with you anymore."
"Wrong," he sneered. "I am still your elder brother and your legal guardian on paper. You do whatever I say. And you are getting married, whether you like it or not."
My shoulder slumped, defeat already sipping in. "What is it this time? Gambling? Did you lose the drugs? Or you gambled me for some cash?"
He drew in a breath. "Debt. Fifteen million dollars."
"Fucking Fifteen million dollars?!" I bellowed, my voice echoing in my apartment.
"I needed the money and he was offering. It was a mouth-watering deal but I didn't think I'd have to actually give up the collateral."
"You…you offered me as a collateral?" My lips quivered, tears spilling.
"I had no other choice. It looked like the best deal and I didn't—"
I interrupted his word by dragging the wine from his grip, shoving my way past him and walking back to the kitchen to fill a glass with the remaining wine.
He followed after me to complete his statement anyway. "I didn't think I wouldn't be able to pay."
I threw the whole content of the wine into my mouth and I settled the glass of wine back down, hands flattened on the work table as I asked, staring ahead. "Who is he?"
There was a long pause, and I felt a foreboding chill settle over me just as his lips moved to echo the name that had haunted me for years.
"Sinclair Kavanagh."