A Debt Unpaid

Emma Sinclair sat in silence as the black Rolls-Royce Phantom disappeared into the rain, its taillights fading into the misty darkness. The cold wind bit at her damp clothes, reminding her of just how surreal the last fifteen minutes had been.

She clutched the white handkerchief Alexander Westwood had given her, the expensive fabric soft against her fingers. His scent still lingered on it—a crisp blend of cedarwood and musk, unfamiliar yet strangely comforting.

Shaking herself out of her daze, she turned toward the apartment building before her.

The crumbling brick walls and flickering hallway lights were a stark contrast to the luxurious car she had just stepped out of. But this was reality. Her reality.

Taking a deep breath, she climbed the narrow staircase to the third floor, careful to avoid the places where the wooden steps creaked. When she finally reached her door, she hesitated before pushing it open.

Inside, the dimly lit apartment smelled of medicine and damp air.

Her mother, Grace Sinclair, lay asleep on the worn-out couch, a thin blanket barely covering her frail body. The small heater in the corner hummed weakly, struggling against the cold.

Emma's heart clenched.

She carefully removed her wet shoes and tiptoed toward her mother, adjusting the blanket over her shoulders. Her mother stirred slightly, her face pale and exhausted even in sleep.

Emma knew they were out of medicine.

She knew that tomorrow, she would have to find a way to get more.

And she also knew that she had no money left.

—

The Next Morning

Emma woke up early, her body still aching from the cold of the previous night. Her damp clothes from yesterday hung over the chair, still not fully dry.

She rubbed her temples, exhaustion settling deep into her bones. But there was no time to rest.

The hospital bills were due. The loan sharks would come knocking soon.

And today, she had to go to the Westwood Corporation for a job interview.

—

Westwood Corporation

The skyscraper towered over the city, its glass facade reflecting the pale winter sunlight. Emma stared up at it, nerves twisting inside her stomach.

This was one of the most powerful companies in the country. Getting a job here would mean a stable income, a way to pull her mother out of their endless debt.

She had applied for a position as an assistant in the finance department, knowing full well that thousands of people competed for jobs like this.

As she stepped into the massive lobby, she felt small—out of place among the sharply dressed professionals who moved with confidence and purpose.

She tightened her grip on her resume and approached the reception desk.

"Excuse me, I have an interview for the assistant position," she said softly.

The receptionist, a polished woman with red lipstick and a sharp gaze, barely looked at her before motioning toward the elevators.

"Third floor, conference room B. Wait until you're called."

Emma nodded and made her way toward the elevator, her heart pounding.

—

An Unexpected Interviewer

Emma sat in the waiting area, her hands cold despite the heated room.

One by one, candidates were called in, and one by one, they walked out—some with hopeful smiles, others looking completely defeated.

She swallowed hard.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, her name was called.

She stood up, smoothed her borrowed blouse, and stepped into the conference room.

And froze.

Sitting at the head of the table, dressed in an impeccable black suit, was Alexander Westwood.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Why was he here?

Hadn't he said nothing last night? Hadn't he simply dropped her off without another word?

But here he was, sitting like a king, his dark eyes watching her with an unreadable expression.

She gripped her resume tighter and forced herself to step forward.

"Miss Sinclair," his voice was smooth, but there was something almost amused in it. "We meet again."

She swallowed. "Mr. Westwood."

"Take a seat."

She did.

The other interviewers—three men and one woman—were flipping through her resume, murmuring among themselves. But Emma barely heard them.

Because Alexander's gaze never left her.

For the first few minutes, the other interviewers took charge, asking standard questions.

Then, after a pause, Alexander spoke.

"Tell me, Miss Sinclair," his fingers tapped lightly against the table, "why should we hire you?"

Emma hesitated.

Why should they hire her? She was just another desperate applicant, struggling to keep her life from falling apart. She had no elite education, no impressive connections.

But she had determination.

She straightened her back.

"Because I work hard," she said firmly. "Because I don't give up, no matter how difficult things get."

One of the interviewers raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Miss Sinclair, working hard is not a qualification. What can you bring to this company?"

Emma's fingers clenched in her lap.

She needed this job.

She was about to speak again when Alexander's voice cut through the room like steel.

"She's hired."

Silence.

The other interviewers looked at him in shock.

"But, Mr. Westwood—" one of them began hesitantly.

Alexander's gaze was cold, final.

"I said, she's hired."

Emma stared at him, stunned.

He had made the decision in seconds, without even letting her finish.

Why?

She didn't know whether to be grateful or suspicious.

But she did know one thing—this job came with a price.

And Alexander Westwood never did anything without a reason.

—

The Price of His Favor

Emma's first day at Westwood Corporation was a whirlwind.

She was assigned to work under the finance department, handling schedules, emails, and minor reports.

But by mid-afternoon, a message came through her inbox:

"Report to the CEO's office. Now."

Her stomach twisted.

She took a deep breath and made her way to the top floor, where Alexander's office was located.

The doors to his office were sleek and intimidating, and when she knocked, a deep voice from inside commanded—

"Enter."

She stepped in cautiously.

Alexander sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his fingers steepled together as he watched her approach.

"You called for me?" she asked.

He gestured toward the seat across from him. "Sit."

She obeyed, her nerves on edge.

For a moment, he simply studied her, his gaze unreadable. Then, he leaned forward slightly.

"You owe me, Emma."

Her breath caught.

She knew it.

He hadn't hired her out of generosity. Men like Alexander Westwood didn't help people for free.

She forced herself to stay calm. "What do you mean?"

His lips curved into a dangerous smirk.

"You needed a job. I gave you one."

He leaned back, his dark gaze piercing into hers.

"And now, it's time to repay the favor."

Emma's heart pounded.

She didn't know what he wanted from her.

But one thing was certain—

Alexander Westwood had just pulled her into his world.

And there was no escaping now.