That Sinful Touch

The rain fell in sheets, soft and relentless, as if the sky itself mourned what was about to happen. Each drop struck the windowpane like a quiet warning, a whisper of something dreadful drawing near. Xochi Gerald stood by the cracked glass of their small apartment window, her fingers absentmindedly tracing circles in the condensation. The world outside blurred-a mix of headlights, shadows, and reflections drowned in water. The street below looked like it was crying.

Inside, the silence was heavier than the storm. It clung to the peeling walls and frayed curtains like a ghost, filling every corner with dread.

Her twin sisters, Zeenah and Meena, sat curled beneath a faded blanket on the worn-out couch. They whispered to each other, their voices soft and shallow, like children trying to pretend everything was okay. But it wasn't. They knew it. And Xochi knew it, too.

Their father's latest mistake had finally caught up with them. And this time, there would be no hiding, no sweet-talking their way out of it, no miracle to save them at the last second.

"Xochi," Meena whispered, peering at her with wide, pleading eyes. "You should sit."

Xochi didn't move. Her body was stiff, every muscle coiled in quiet tension. Her gaze remained locked on the rain-streaked window, as if hoping the storm could drown out the truth.

Instead, her mind replayed her father's words from earlier that night, slurred and soaked in whiskey: "It's all taken care of. Your uncle... he fixed it."

But Uncle Richard never fixed anything for free. He was a man who measured family in terms of profit and leverage. And her gut twisted with the knowledge that she was the payment this time.

She didn't have to wait long to find out.

A knock echoed through the apartment-soft, deliberate, not urgent but final. The kind of knock that didn't need volume to be menacing. It sent a shiver through the air.

Zeenah went rigid. Meena's hands clutched the blanket tighter, her knuckles white.

Xochi turned slowly, her heart drumming in her chest like war drums. Each step toward the door felt heavier than the last, her legs reluctant to carry her toward what she already knew was waiting.

She opened the door.

A man stood there, tall and straight-backed, dressed in a sharp black suit. His face was unreadable, carved from stone, eyes empty of emotion. He looked like the kind of man who delivered ruin wrapped in formality.

"Miss Gerald?" he asked, voice flat.

"Yes," she said, barely audible.

He extended a slim, wax-sealed envelope, the emblem of Uncle Richard pressed into the red seal like a brand.

"From your uncle," the man said. "You're expected to read and sign."

Xochi stared at the envelope, her stomach twisting into a knot. It felt heavier than it looked. Like it already knew what it contained.

"I'm just a messenger," the man added, as if absolving himself of what came next.

She nodded once and took the envelope with trembling fingers, then slowly shut the door. The apartment seemed darker somehow, the silence even deeper than before.

Meena sat up, panic on her face. "Is that...?"

Xochi nodded.

Zeenah reached for her hand. "Don't open it."

But her fingers were already peeling the seal.

Inside: a note and a contract-immaculately typed, impersonal, cold as ice. Her eyes darted across the words, and though her vision blurred, the meaning hit her like a slap.

Marriage.

To Chris Moreau.

In exchange for the full payment of her father's debts.

It was business. A transaction. A solution.

A sentence.

Uncle Richard had "fixed it," all right. He had cleaned up the mess-by trading her away like property.

She stared at the document in disbelief. Her entire future, boxed neatly in a piece of paper. There was even a date set for the ceremony. Tomorrow.

"Xochi, no," Meena said softly, crawling across the couch toward her.

"What choice do I have?" Xochi asked, voice cracking. She looked up from the paper, her expression scared.