Dirty Deal

1. Lena

One

Lena

B efore the airplane engine shuts down, before the line down the central aisle begins to shuffle forward, before I’ve even scrubbed ten hours’ worth of flight bleariness from my eyes—my phone buzzes.

And buzzes. And buzzes. And buzzes some more, vibrating against my hip. I ignore it, yawning so wide my jaw cracks. Shouldn’t have switched it on so soon.

“Excuse me, can you pass that—”

“Ma’am? It’s time to wake up. We’ve landed.”

“No, my bag is the gray one—”

“What time is it here?”

Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.

Less than ten minutes back on home soil, and I already miss the Alps. The crisp mountain air; those huge blue skies; the little puffs of white cloud skidding past overhead. Springy green grass and damp rock and cutesy towns of wooden cabins.

And most importantly: space. Peace and quiet and no strangers pressed up against my back and sides, breathing all over me with their stale morning breath.

I want to go back.

My heart pangs in my chest as I picture it: marching off this plane and straight back into the terminal to buy a return ticket to Switzerland. Switching my buzzing phone off for good and tossing it in the nearest trash can.

But I can’t do that, no matter how sweet that daydream tastes.

My parents need me. I owe them this.

Honestly, I never should have left them alone for a year in the first place. This whole mess is on me.

The plane empties slowly, everyone inching forward in a tired line, our sagging shoulders slung with backpacks and cross-body bags. We all avoid each other’s gaze, none of us wanting to make eye contact after ten hours sitting upright in our clothes, breathing recycled air and drooling whenever we fell asleep to last summer’s action movies.

My stomach gurgles noisily but I pretend not to hear it, moving forward another step. Plane food is not real food, and I’ve barely eaten three mouthfuls since boarding. I can just imagine what my father’s ex-protege, Weston, would say about that if he were here— Too spoiled for a microwave meal, princess? Better to starve than slum it?

Even in my imagination, that man’s deep, gravelly voice sends a shiver down my limbs. It’s good that he’s not around anymore to witness this, really. The Merritt family’s fall from grace.

Would Weston be surprised? Or did he see this coming all along? Is that why he bought our casino and then stopped taking our calls a year ago?

My chest gives another pang, but I tell myself it’s still about missing Switzerland. Obviously.

The plane funnels us down a tunnel into arrivals. The floor tiles are gray, the walls are gray, and the clouds outside are extra gray. I move through the airport in a daze, showing my passport and collecting my suitcase, before finally spilling outside into the wind and rain.

For a moment, old habits take over. I stand there at the edge of the sidewalk like a complete idiot, waiting for a private driver who is never gonna come. Waiting to be whisked away to my plush family townhouse, with its chandeliers and hardwood floors and ivy vines climbing pale stone. To the staff who will carry my bags and launder my clothes.

Then my phone buzzes against my hip for the millionth time, and reality comes crashing back down on me like a landslide. There’s no private driver anymore. No staff at all. In the space of one year, my parents blew it all. They’re still in the townhouse, but barely.

Head pounding, stomach roiling, I turn and wheel my suitcase all the way to the bus stop.

* * *

I stand on the townhouse steps and ring the bell six times before anyone answers. My parents aren’t used to this yet either: answering their own door, picking up their own groceries, weathering the knowing stares of their well-off neighbors. Most of the texts I checked on the bus were about how terrible it’s been. I stared at the screen for a long time, thumbs poised to reply, before giving up and tucking my phone away.

What is there to say, after all? My parents were two of the wealthiest people in the city not that long ago. They had everything they could possibly ever need. All they had to do was not do anything stupid.

Now they’re tugging their own heavy front door open, their clothes wrinkled, wide-eyed with dismay at how low they’ve fallen—before collapsing on me like the sobbing survivors of an earthquake.

“Lena!”

“Princess!”

My shoulders stiffen at that nickname, but I let my parents drag me inside, suitcase knocking against my calf. The door slams shut behind me, blocking out the moaning wind.

They fuss over me, peeling off my coat and saying I must be soaked to the bone, asking if I’ve been eating enough. As though I’ve been away at war, rather than working in events management for a ski resort.

“I’m fine,” I snap eventually, shrugging them both off, and they both blanch but step back. I’ve only been away for one year, but in that time, my parents have both aged a decade.

They’re both shorter, stooped, their shoulders rounded where they used to stand proud. My mother’s hair has grown out of its usually perfect coif, and my father’s salt and pepper hair has turned entirely gray.

There are bags under both of their eyes. And this townhouse is cold, the heating switched off even though it’s freezing outside.

I’d feel sorry for them, if this weren’t all their damn fault.

“Have you received any more threats?” I ask, my tone all business as I lead the way to the kitchen. My skull is squeezing my brain in a vise-grip, and I need coffee. Gallons of coffee.

Cupboards slam and mugs clatter as I dig out supplies. My parents are silent, huddled together against the marble kitchen island, until I shoot my father a pointed look over my shoulder.

“Yes,” he rasps. “Two days ago. We’re running out of time. They won’t wait much longer.”

He looks so much smaller than I remember. Weaker, too.

Once upon a time, my father was a giant in my eyes. The hero of every story.

These days, I see him for what he really is: a weak man who cares more about appearing wealthy than he does about true security. A man who would take out loans upon loans, first from the banks, then from shadier companies, before finally borrowing from the kinds of gangs who take kneecaps rather than payment plans.

All to keep play-acting as a billionaire. Gambling thousands of dollars every night in the very same casino he sold to Weston James; buying my mother designer dresses and diamond drop earrings. You know: pointless crap.

How much of my childhood was already a lie? How much of it was never truly ours, only borrowed at the cost of our future selves?

“And Weston?” I ask, keeping my voice carefully level. My mother huffs loudly at the mere mention of his name, slapping one hand down on the island. Her expensive rings clatter against the marble, and I file that observation away for later.

My parents are not entirely without resources yet. There’s still the townhouse, too, though scooping them out of this home might feel like peeling a snail from its shell.

“That man,” my mother hisses, almost to herself. My father rubs her shoulder, but directs his words to me.

“He won’t help. Won’t even let me through the casino doors anymore. After I built that place, after I made it what it is—”

“My great-grandfather built the Merritt,” I point out, cutting off his rant. I’ve heard it a hundred times before, and it never gets more interesting. “You inherited it. Then ran it into the ground, and sold it to Weston James at an incredibly low price.”

My mother splutters. My father sucks in a deep breath.

“I negotiated a profitable deal—”

“You sold this family’s main source of income. Along with all your other assets, and in the space of a single year. All for a series of cheap thrills in your own lost casino. Impressive, really.”

My words are harsh, I know they are, but they’re the truth. Better to face harsh truths than tell each other sweet lies. Because despite how fall they’ve fallen, despite the true idiocy of their decisions, I love my parents and they love me. The Merritts will weather this together—somehow.

I turn and pass them both coffees. They take them gratefully, blowing at the hot liquid, and I make a mental note to check that they actually know how to use the damn machine. Seriously, how can anyone be so helpless in this day and age? The internet is right there.

My headache throbs, and I sip my own coffee before continuing.

“Here’s the plan.”

My parents straighten against the island, hope in their eyes for the first time. When I was younger, these two people seemed like the font of all knowledge. I believed everything they told me, sucked up their ‘wisdom’ like a greedy little plant.

Those days are long gone.

“You’re going to sell the townhouse.” My mother lets out a sob, wilting against the island, but I ignore her theatrics. We need to get through this. “Your jewelry, too. The watches, the designer clothes, the original artworks. All of it. Anything you have left that’s worth selling.”

“But you can’t—”

“Princess—”

I hold up a hand, and they both cut off. Thank god. This hurts me too, more than I’d like to admit. All my childhood memories are in this house; my whole identity formed within its walls.

“You’re going to take that money and pay off your debts. Start with the people who are threatening you. We’ll worry about the legitimate lenders later.”

“But… where will we live?” my mother says, clinging to the marble island for balance.

“It won’t be enough,” my father says, shaking his head as though I’m the dumbass here. “Nowhere near enough, Lena.”

Each inhale makes my head swim. For all that my parents begged me to come and save them, they’ve never told me the exact figure they owe. I’m not sure even they know, but if selling every valuable item they have left won’t even scratch it, they’re in more trouble than I thought.

This townhouse can’t sell soon enough.

“I will rent us an apartment,” I say. My throat is tight, and I sip more coffee, relishing the burn as I swallow. “It will be cheap and small and probably noisy. You can complain to each other, but not to me.”

Thanks to my parents’ poor judgment, I’m here instead of Switzerland. Back in this hectic, crowded city, speaking English rather than practicing my French, picking up after other people’s mistakes.

I had a life, damn it. I was building my own life, far away from here, somewhere I could pretend that Weston James didn’t haunt my dreams at night. Somewhere no one ever called me princess .

“You’ll give every cent you possibly can to the men threatening you. If it’s not enough yet, you’ll promise them the rest is coming. And I…”

My mug creaks in my hand, and I force my grip to relax before the handle snaps off.

“I will go to see Weston, and I will beg for his help.”

So long, pride. It was nice knowing you.