The Debt
"Her husband owes fifty thousand to the wrong people. When they come to collect, he offers them something unexpected: her. She's supposed to hate it. She doesn't."
They come on a Tuesday night.
Three men in dark suits. Polite, professional, terrifying. My husband owes them fifty thousand dollars from a poker game that went wrong—a game I didn't know about, a debt I didn't agree to.
"We can take the house," the one in charge says. His name is Marcus. "The cars. Everything you own. It still won't be enough."
"Please." David is on his knees. Crying. "I'll get the money. Just give me time."
"Time is money, David. And you have neither."
Marcus's eyes find me.
I'm standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing a robe and nothing else. I was getting ready for bed when they knocked. Now I'm watching my marriage fall apart.
"Unless..." Marcus tilts his head. Studies me. "There's another option."
I'm forty-three years old.
Two-fifty, give or take. I haven't been thin since I was twenty. Motherhood thickened me, middle age softened me, and years of David's indifference made me stop caring.
I'm not beautiful. Not anymore. Not ever, really.
But Marcus is looking at me like I'm worth something.
"Your wife," he says to David. "She could work off the debt."
"What?" David's voice cracks. "No. Absolutely not."
"It's just an offer." Marcus shrugs. "Fifty thousand, spread over... let's say three months. Once a week. She'd be well compensated. Well treated."
"This is insane."
"This is business." Marcus looks at me again. "What do you say, Mrs. Peterson? Would you like to save your husband?"
I should be horrified. Disgusted. Outraged.
But David has been ignoring me for years. Coming home late. Sleeping on the couch. Looking through me like I'm furniture.
And Marcus is looking at me. Really looking.
"Yes," I hear myself say.
David's head snaps up. "Karen—"
"Shut up." I tighten my robe. "You got us into this. I'll get us out."
The first night is terrifying.
I go to Marcus's apartment—a penthouse downtown, all glass and chrome. He's waiting in a silk robe, a glass of wine in each hand.
"You came."
"I said I would."
"Your husband didn't think you would." He hands me a glass. "He's been calling all week, trying to negotiate. Offering everything except the one thing I want."
"And what do you want?"
"You." He sets down his glass. "I've wanted you since I saw you in that doorway. All those curves. All that flesh. Wasted on a man who doesn't appreciate it."
"David appreciates—"
"David gambles his family's future away on a poker game." Marcus moves closer. "David hasn't touched you in months—I can see it in your eyes. David is a fool."
His hand finds my face. Tilts it up.
"I'm not a fool," he says. "I know exactly what you're worth."
He undresses me slowly.
Not tearing, not rushed. Like he's unwrapping a gift.
My robe falls. My nightgown follows. I'm standing naked in front of a stranger, every flaw exposed, and I want to cover myself—want to apologize for the stretch marks, the cellulite, the way my belly hangs.
But Marcus is looking at me like I'm art.
"Beautiful," he breathes. "God, you're beautiful."
"I'm fat."
"You're magnificent." He drops to his knees. Presses his lips to my belly. "And I'm going to worship every inch of you."
No one has ever touched me like this.
Marcus uses his mouth—on my stomach, my thighs, between my legs—until I'm shaking. Uses his hands—kneading, squeezing, appreciating. Uses his words—beautiful, perfect, mine—until I almost believe them.
When he finally fucks me, it's slow. Deep. He watches my face the whole time, like my pleasure is the only thing that matters.
"This is what you deserve," he says, thrusting into me. "This is how you should be treated."
I come harder than I have in years.
And when he finishes inside me, I don't feel used.
I feel awake.
I go home to David.
He's waiting in the kitchen. Pale. Sick-looking.
"How was it?" he asks. He can't meet my eyes.
"It was fine."
"Did he... hurt you?"
"No." I walk past him. Stop at the stairs. "He treated me better than you have in years."
David flinches like I slapped him.
Good.
Week two
Marcus teaches me things.
How to move. How to ask for what I want. How to take instead of give.
"Your husband has been starving you," he says, his face between my thighs. "Starving you of touch, of attention, of pleasure. I'm going to give you everything he withheld."
He does.
By the end of the night, I've lost count of my orgasms.
"Same time next week," he says as I dress.
"Same time next week."
Week four
David tries to touch me.
I'm in bed, reading, when his hand slides up my thigh.
"I miss you," he says. "I know I messed up, but—"
"Don't."
"Karen—"
"You sold me." I turn to face him. "You sold me to pay your debt, and now you want to touch me like nothing happened?"
"It's almost over. Two more months and—"
"And what? We go back to normal? To you ignoring me? To me pretending I'm happy?"
He doesn't have an answer.
"Sleep on the couch," I tell him.
He does.
Week six
Marcus introduces me to his associates.
The other two from that first night. James and Victor. Both of them watching me with the same hunger Marcus showed.
"They've been asking about you," Marcus says. "Would you like to... expand the arrangement?"
I should say no. This was supposed to be about the debt. About survival.
But I'm standing in a room with three powerful men who all want me, and I've never felt more desired.
"Yes," I say.
Three men at once.
One in my mouth, one between my legs, one waiting his turn. They rotate. Take turns. Use me in ways David never dreamed of.
And I love it.
"You're perfect for this," Marcus tells me afterward. "You were wasted on that life. That husband. You were made for more."
"What kind of more?"
"Whatever you want." He strokes my hair. "The debt is almost paid. But you don't have to stop."
"What are you offering?"
"A position. With us. Permanent. Comfortable." His lips find my ear. "You'd never want for anything again."
Week twelve
The debt is paid.
I sit across from Marcus in his office—fully dressed this time, businesslike—and he slides a document across the desk.
"The terms are clear," he says. "David's debt is settled. You're free to go home."
"And if I don't want to go home?"
He smiles. "Then we discuss the other offer."
I tell David that night.
He's been drinking since I got home. Eyes red. Hands shaking.
"It's over?" he asks.
"The debt is over." I set my wedding ring on the table. "So is this."
"Karen—"
"You sold me to save yourself. And you know what? It was the best thing you ever did for me." I walk toward the stairs. "I'm packing a bag. My lawyer will be in touch."
"Where are you going?"
I don't answer.
I don't owe him answers anymore.
Six months later
I live in the penthouse now.
Marcus's penthouse. Our penthouse.
I'm not his wife—we don't need labels. I'm his partner. His companion. The woman he comes home to.
And sometimes, when the mood strikes, I'm the woman he shares.
"James and Victor are coming for dinner," he tells me on a Thursday evening. "They've been asking about you."
"Mmm." I stretch on the silk sheets. "What did you tell them?"
"I told them to ask you directly."
"And what should I say?"
He leans down. Kisses me. Slow and deep.
"Whatever you want," he says. "You're the one in control now."
I smile.
I like the sound of that.
David sends letters sometimes.
Apologies. Pleas. Promises to change.
I throw them away without reading.
I've already changed. Already become someone new. Someone who takes what she wants, who knows her worth, who refuses to settle for less than she deserves.
David taught me I was nothing.
Marcus taught me I was everything.
I know which lesson I'm keeping.