The air in Mr. Henderson's office felt thick and heavy. It smelled old, like dusty books and hidden truths.
Only one week had passed since Dad fell ill and left us. Just seven days since my life turned upside down.
I sat stiff in the hard leather chair across from the big wooden desk. My black dress scratched at my skin, feeling all wrong.
I should be at home, planning a goodbye for Dad, looking at old photos, not waiting here for a will reading.
Dad always told me the Rossi Galleries were my future. They were the heart of our family.
Mr. Henderson, our family lawyer for many years, coughed to clear his throat. His face looked serious, with deep lines I never saw before.
"Elena," he began, his voice soft and unsure. "I hate that we meet like this."
I nodded, feeling numb. Sadness wrapped around me like a heavy blanket, making everything quiet.
"Your father's death was so sudden," he went on, moving some papers. "And it has shown us some hard things."
Hard things? What could be worse than losing Dad?
"The Rossi Galleries," he stopped for a moment, looking right at me with sad eyes. "They have no money left, Elena. They're bankrupt."
Bankrupt? No way. That can't be true. Dad loved the galleries. They meant everything to him.
"There has to be a mistake," I whispered, my voice so small.
Mr. Henderson shook his head. "I'm sorry, but it's true. Your father had big debts. Secret debts."
My heart felt ice cold. Debts? Dad was always so careful with money.
"How much?" I asked, the words hurting as they came out.
He pushed a paper toward me. Names and numbers blurred in front of my eyes.
My breath stopped for a second.
Five million dollars.
Five million.
"This can't be real," I said, panic growing inside me, heavy and tight.
"I've checked it all, Elena. Most of it is from gambling. It built up over years."
Gambling? My father? The man who handled beautiful art? It made no sense.
I looked at the list again, hoping for a mistake. Then a name hit me hard, scary and clear.
Julian Thorne: $3,000,000.
Julian Thorne. Everyone in the city's money world knew that name. Cold, strong, someone you don't mess with.
My father owed him three million dollars?
Below his name, another one: Dmitri Volkov: $2,000,000.
Volkov. Even I had heard that name, tied to dark, dangerous stuff.
"These debts, do they go to the estate?" I asked, holding onto a tiny bit of hope.
Mr. Henderson's face got tighter. "The galleries have nothing left, Elena. Your home, the brownstone, it's all borrowed against. Your father made you the only one to get everything, but also the only one to take on his debts."
The only one. Those words hit me hard. Five million dollars. My problem now.
I felt sick, the room spinning around me.
I had nothing. Worse than nothing. I was just twenty-four, out of college, and stuck with a debt that could destroy me.
Dad didn't just leave me. He broke my trust. He left me with nothing.
The sadness I felt turned into sharp pain, cutting deep.
"What can I do?" I forced the words out. "I don't have this money. I don't have any money."
Mr. Henderson leaned closer, his voice even quieter. "There's more, Elena. It's urgent."
Urgent? How could things get worse?
"Mr. Thorne's office called already. This morning."
So soon? Dad was gone only a week.
"They know about this. They want the money paid now."
He paused, looking uneasy. "Or, they said, you can call his office to talk about other ways to settle it."
Other ways to settle it.
Those words hung heavy, full of hidden danger.
Coming from someone like Julian Thorne, it felt like a soft threat, wrapped in smooth words.
The panic inside me wasn't just growing. It was tearing me apart.
My father's legacy wasn't art. It was destruction.
And Julian Thorne was ready to take what he was owed.
