Chapter Two – Family Crisis

SOFIA

If sleep were a person, mine last night was the kind who shows up late, eats all your snacks, and leaves without paying for the pizza.

I tossed, I turned, I tried counting sheep, then gave up because apparently my brain thought it was more fun to replay yesterday’s break room gossip on a loop. You’d think I was being interrogated by the FBI the way my mind kept circling back to one name.

Adrian Vale.

The cold billionaire.

I’ve never met him, but somehow he’s wedged himself into my subconscious like a bad jingle you can’t get rid of. I even dreamed about him. Not in the fun, scandalous way either—he was just standing there in a perfect suit, looking at me like I owed him money. Then I woke up sweating, which… probably says more about me than him.

By morning, I’d planned to shake it off with coffee and a lazy Saturday, maybe ignore my bills until they became next week’s problem. But at 8:14 a.m., my phone buzzed with a text from Dad:

DAD: Come over. We need to talk.

No “good morning.” No emoji. Just the kind of message that makes your stomach drop before you’ve even brushed your teeth.

The walk to my parents’ house takes ten minutes, but my anxiety is already jogging laps by the time I ring the bell.

Mom answers, wearing her faded robe and the kind of smile that tries to be normal and fails. She hugs me quickly and hands me a mug of coffee, like caffeine will soften whatever I’m about to hear.

Dad’s in the dining room, hunched over the table like he’s trying to fold himself into the spreadsheets spread out in front of him. His reading glasses are perched low on his nose, his hair more silver than I remember.

“We’re in trouble, Sofia,” he says without preamble.

“I gathered,” I reply, because subtlety isn’t my strong suit before caffeine.

He gestures at the mess on the table.

“Two major clients pulled out this quarter. Cash flow is gone. We’ve been covering payroll with credit.”

I glance at the numbers in red, each one screaming ‘you’re doomed’ in bold font.

“How bad?” because I have to know the level of shit I have to deal with.

“Bad enough that certain… parties… have taken an interest”

The way he says parties makes my skin prickle—not the kind with balloons, sheet cake, and awkward small talk over lukewarm punch. No, he means the kind that don’t send reminder emails but instead send a man in a dark suit to stand outside your office, not blinking, not moving, until you “understand the urgency.” You know, the kind where RSVP-ing is less of an option and more of a survival tactic.

Mom sits beside him, her fingers laced tightly together.

“Your father has a meeting next week,” she says carefully. “To negotiate.”

Negotiate. Such a polite little word, dressed up in its business-casual best, as if it’s all handshakes and mutual respect. In reality, it’s just a fancy way of saying beg—except you’re begging people who could probably make you disappear without smudging their cufflinks. You’re smiling, nodding, pretending you have leverage, all while calculating exactly how much of your dignity you can trade for a little more time.

“So, what happens if you miss a payment?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

Dad sighs.

“It’s not like that.”

“Dad, it’s exactly like that.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to chew.

He leans back in his chair.

“We’ll figure it out.”

His voice is steady, but there’s something brittle underneath. Like glass that’s already cracked.

And then, because my brain is a traitor, it flickers back to yesterday’s gossip.

Adrian Vale.

The kind of man who wouldn’t need to “figure it out.” He’d walk into a room, make three phone calls, and the problem would evaporate along with whoever caused it.

For a moment, I imagine what it would be like if someone like him stepped into my father’s mess. But then I shove the thought away. People like Adrian Vale don’t deal with families like mine. Not unless they can profit from it.

Mom clears her throat.

“Your father might need to make some… tough decisions. We just wanted you to be prepared.”

Prepared for what? To sell the house? To lose everything? To run?

I look at both of them, my heart heavy and my sarcasm fighting to surface.

“You’re telling me this now so I can start practicing my ‘we’re fine’ face?”

Dad’s mouth twitches, but it’s not amusement—it’s exhaustion.

We talk numbers for another half hour, but it’s like trying to plug a sinking boat with a paper towel. By the time I leave, my head is pounding and my coffee’s gone cold.

The winter air outside hits me like a slap. The street looks the same, quiet and familiar, but I feel like I’m walking through a different version of it. One where every shadow might belong to someone who wants something from us.

On the way home, I pass a black car idling at the curb. The driver is watching me in that blank, unreadable way that makes you speed up without meaning to. I tell myself it’s nothing, but the unease stays with me until I shut my apartment door.

Back inside, I drop onto the couch and stare at the ceiling. My father’s words echo in my head. ‘Certain parties have taken an interest’.

And for reasons I can’t explain, I hear another echo layered over it—two analysts in the break room, whispering a name like it was dangerous.

Adrian Vale.

It’s probably just coincidence. Probably.

But the word doesn’t feel like much of a shield when the pieces start lining up too neatly. Deep down, a part of me wonders if these cracks in my life aren’t just bad luck, but careful fractures—pressure points someone’s been waiting to press. Not random misfortune, but the first quiet move in someone else’s game… the kind where you don’t even realize you’re playing until you’re already losing.