Krystal's POV

“I—can I have some time to think about this?” you stutter. Your mother simply turns her attention back to her computer. When her eyes leave your face, you feel like you can breathe a bit easier. It’s with uncertain haste that you push your chair back and stand.

“You have until tomorrow morning.”

The clacking of her nails against the keyboard serves as a signal for you to leave.

“Okay.”

But as you open the door, your mother clears .

“Oh, did I forget to mention,” she starts and dread pumps through your body. “Your father and I took out a few loans in your name. Nothing we can’t pay back if the marriage goes through. But if it doesn’t, well, your credit will be ruined.”

You stop in your tracks as something very close to dangerous anger bubbles under your skin.

“That’s—that’s illegal,” you snarl, half turning back toward your mother.

Her lips pull up at one side.

“No, it’s not, if we invested it in your name,” she gives you a poisoned smile. “Alas, your father made a poor gamble and the money’s gone. Luckily, it’s due in six months, so we—I mean the Kim family has time to make good on the debt.”

You can’t even find a bad enough word to throw at her. You pivot and blast through the door. By the time you enter the hallway, you’re running.

You don’t know where you’re going. Your feet seem to have a mind of their own as they take you through the labyrinth of hallways and lofty rooms in the house. There’s a strange sound coming from somewhere, loud ripping noises, like an animal choking. A minute later, you realize it’s you. You’re sobbing uncontrollably, your entire body shaking like you’re about to break. From somewhere faraway inside your mind, you think that the phrase ‘going to pieces’ finally makes sense. You push your way into a small room on the fourth floor and fall to your knees.

“Ahhhh!” You’re screaming so loudly as you curl up. The shaking grows worse and you try to hold yourself together by wrapping your arms around your convulsing body. “Help me!” You shout at the ceiling, teeth chattering in your skull. But of course, no one can hear you.

And even if help came, you know that there’s no out from this.

You had to give it to your mother. She always had insurance, ever since it became apparent that you were naturally rebellious. You think back to your teenage years, the number of times you tried to run away from her iron fisted approach. You never got far—she was always three steps ahead of you. She knew you’d fight a decision you didn’t like. So this was why she was so certain you’d marry Kai. Because if you didn’t, your future, and anyone else’s who was legally tied to you, like Amber, would also be ruined.

You feel the crushing weight of hopelessness descending upon your shoulders. Who would ever want you with this much baggage? Anyone who’d marry you would have to deal with your family on top of this financial storm. How could you subject someone to this?

But as you think that, somehow, the image of Amber’s face swims back into your mind. Amber didn’t seem to mind all that stuff that happened between you and Kai. You messed up countless times, yet Amber still stood by you. Was it possible—could it be, that Amber would accept you as you are, new complications included?

You’re sitting up now.

You’d have to be honest about everything, you couldn’t possibly leave anything out. At the end of the day, this wasn’t your decision to make. It would be up to whoever you loved. If they thought you were worth it all.

Gradually, you’re able to calm yourself down. It takes you close to an hour before you can push yourself up onto your elbows. The thick dust coating the floor of this abandoned guestroom clings to your white clothing like a soft fog. If your mother saw you like this, she’d order you to change immediately and punish you for embarrassing her.

Brrrrriiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnggggggggg!!

Who could that be? You wearily reach into your pocket and pull out the vibrating phone. It’s an unknown number. You slowly accept the call.

“Krystal?” a somewhat familiar voice asks for you on the other end.

“Yes,” you reply dully.

“It’s me, Irene,”