CRIMSON DEBTS Chapter 4
Chapter 4: The Price of Salt
The North Wing didn't feel like a bedroom; it felt like a museum exhibit dedicated to Julian's new status. The furniture was antique, the silk sheets a mocking shade of ivory, and the air held a faint, antiseptic chill.
Julian didn't sleep. He spent the night pacing the perimeter, tracing the heavy oak of the door he knew was bolted from the outside. When the sun finally bled over the horizon, the lock clicked.
"Bathed. Dressed. Downstairs in ten minutes," a voice barked. It was Vance, a man with a jagged jawline and a stare that made Julian feel like an inmate. On the bed lay a suit that cost more than Julian's college tuition. It was black, sharp, and felt like a shroud.
The First Assignment
Julian was led not to a dining room, but to a sterile, high-tech office in the basement.
Kaelen was there, stripped of his blazer, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal a jagged scar running from his wrist to his elbow.
He was cleaning a Beretta with methodical, terrifying focus.
"Sit," Kaelen said, not looking up.
Julian sat. On the desk lay a thick ledger and a series of photographs of men Julian didn't recognize.
"My father's debts are messy," Kaelen began, his voice like grinding stones.
"He kept paper trails where there should have been ghosts.
You're an artist, Julian. You have an eye for detail.
Your first task is to digitize these records and find the discrepancies in the laundering accounts.
If a single cent is missing because of your oversight, I'll deduct the difference from your father's skin. "
Julian's stomach lurched. "You want me to help you hide your crimes?"
Kaelen finally looked up. His eyes were void of empathy. "I want you to prove you're worth more than the dirt your father crawled out of. Now, work."
For six hours, Julian stared at numbers that felt like bloodstains. He found three "leaks"-names of men skimming off the top. When he pointed them out, Kaelen didn't thank him. He simply called Vance into the room and said, "Handle it. Quietly."
Julian realized then that his "artistic eye" had just signed three death warrants.
The Toxic Dinner
The evening brought a different kind of torture.
"Dinner is at eight," Kaelen had warned. "And Julian? Do not bore me with your silence."
The dining table was long enough to seat twenty, but they sat at opposite ends, the candlelight casting flickering, demonic shadows between them. The food was exquisite-lamb with a wine reduction-but Julian felt like he was chewing glass.
"Tell me," Kaelen said, swirling a glass of deep red vintage. "Do you miss it? The studio? The smell of turpentine?"
"I miss having a choice," Julian snapped, his fork clattering against the china.
Kaelen stood, his movement so sudden Julian flinched. He walked the length of the table, his footsteps heavy on the marble. He stopped behind Julian, leaning down until his lips were inches from Julian's ear. He placed a hand on the table, effectively pinning Julian in his seat.
"Choice is a luxury for people who don't owe millions," Kaelen whispered. He reached out, his fingers dipping into Julian's wine glass. He pulled them out, dripping red, and traced a slow, wet line down the side of Julian's neck, right over his pulse point.
Julian's breath hitched. It was a violation, a marking.
"You're a fast learner, Jules," Kaelen murmured, his eyes dropping to where Julian's heart thundered against his ribs. "But don't mistake my interest for kindness. You're the most expensive thing I own. I intend to get my money's worth."
Kaelen licked the wine from his own fingers, his gaze never leaving Julian's. He didn't say another word as he turned and left the room, leaving Julian alone with the drying, crimson stain on his skin.