I went back inside because I wanted to see the paper that sold me.
My hands were still shaking, so I pressed them flat on the counter until they stopped.
Darcy: Show me the loans. All of it.
Hazel didn't argue, and that scared me more than a fight would have.
She pulled a folder from under the register and set it down like a menu.
Hazel: Read fast. Mr. Tarr's car is waiting.
The first page was the bindery. Equipment loan, overdraft, a second loan against the building.
Six figures, all of it mine to fix now, apparently, by standing still in a gold ring.
The second page had my name on it. Not the bindery's name. Mine.
Kerr family fund. Beneficiary, Darcy Kerr. Pledged as collateral, one hundred percent.
Darcy: What the fuck is this?
My father's signature sat at the bottom, shaky and small, dated three weeks ago.
Three weeks. He'd had three weeks to tell me.
Darcy: Dad. You signed away my inheritance.
Duncan: It was only supposed to be temporary, sweetheart.
He said sweetheart like it was an apology. It wasn't. It was a habit.
Darcy: You gave away my grandmother's money. You gave away me.
Hazel: Don't be dramatic. That fund was dead weight. Mr. Tarr makes it useful.
Darcy: Useful. Say the real word, Mum. Sold.
Hazel's mouth went thin, and I watched her decide to stop pretending.
Hazel: Fine. Sold. Refuse him and the loan defaults Friday.
Hazel: Your father goes to prison for fraud. Do you want that on your conscience?
There it was. The bill with my father's face printed on it.
She wasn't asking me to marry a man. She was handing me the gun and telling me I pulled the trigger.
Duncan: Hazel. Don't put it like that.
Hazel: Then how should I put it, Duncan? You signed. She pays.
My father made a sound like a door creaking and looked at his shoes again.
Bramwell had been quiet the whole time, and that was the worst part. He wasn't nervous. He was enjoying it.
He poured my father's whiskey without asking, because asking is for people you owe.
Bramwell: To the Kerr Bindery. And to its newest asset.
He raised the glass to me slowly, like I should be flattered, and he smelled like whiskey and money.
Bramwell: You'll learn to like it. Wives always do.
I got out my phone and photographed every page. Front, back, the signature, the date.
Hazel: What are you doing?
Darcy: Making sure I remember exactly what my family is.
Then I found the form she'd tucked in the back. Consent to release the fund. My name line, empty.
Hazel: Sign it and we can all have dinner like civilized people.
I picked up the pen. My mother actually smiled.
Then I set it down again, unclicked, and pushed the folder back across the counter.
Darcy: No.
Hazel: You'll regret that.
Darcy: Add it to the list. It's getting long.
My voice came out steady. Inside, my heart was going like a fist on a locked door.
Bramwell: Friday, six o'clock. I'll send the car.
He said it pleasantly, which was the threat. He'd already decided I'd be in it.
Darcy: Send it. I'm not signing shit.
Hazel moved the deadline to Friday because I said no. That was the price of one small refusal.
I walked out with the ring still on my finger and the photos still in my phone.
I wasn't free. But I wasn't obedient either.
Once, a man had looked at me like I was the answer instead of a line on a bill.
I wanted that again. No price tag.
Friday was coming either way. So was he.
But I had four days and a phone full of proof, and I was done being the thing they drank to.