Chapter 9 Richard's Calls
MIA
He knew my number.
That was the first thing I thought when the unknown number appeared on my screen Wednesday afternoon at the rink.
Not Caleb. Not Chloe. Not anyone familiar.
A local number I didn’t recognize. The kind that didn’t feel random. The kind that felt chosen.
I stood still before answering.
“Miss Lin,” the voice said when I picked up.
Smooth. Controlled. Certain.
The kind of voice that didn’t ask permission.
“This is Richard Kessler. I think it is time you and I had a conversation. Just the two of us. Without my son involved.”
I didn’t respond.
“I know about the contract,” he continued. “I’ve known since the beginning.”
The rink around me suddenly felt too quiet, even though nothing had changed.
“Meet me Thursday at noon,” he said. “Or I pull his funding tonight. Not this week. Tonight.”
The line went dead.
I stayed on the bench for a long time with the phone still in my hand.
The locker room door behind me stayed closed.
Caleb was inside.
Completely unaware that his life had just been rearranged by a single phone call.
I didn’t tell him.
Not that day.
Not the next.
Not once.
I had four days, and I used every single one of them pretending I was normal.
I showed up to the rink.
I refilled water bottles.
I checked inventory.
I sat beside Caleb like nothing inside me had shifted.
On Tuesday night, I sat in his apartment while Mom made tea in the kitchen.
He talked about training. About scouts. About schedules.
I nodded in the right places.
But my mind wasn’t there.
It was on numbers.
On deadlines.
On consequences.
And on a voice that had said pull it without hesitation.
Wednesday night, he texted.
Caleb: Something is wrong.
Mia: I’m just tired.
Caleb: You’ve been somewhere else all week.
Mia: I have a lot going on.
Caleb: Mia.
I stared at his name.
Then typed:
Mia: Go to sleep. I’ll talk tomorrow.
But there would be no tomorrow where this was simple.
Thursday morning, he called before I left.
I watched his name ring on the screen.
Once.
Twice.
Until it stopped.
I didn’t answer.
I stood in the hallway afterward, holding my phone, breathing too carefully.
I kept repeating the same thought in my head.
This is the only way.
This protects both of them.
But even as I said it to myself, it was starting to sound less like truth and more like something I needed to believe.
The Kessler Building downtown didn’t feel like a place people worked.
It felt like something built to remind you who had power.
Glass. Steel. Clean lines that didn’t forgive mistakes.
His name sat above the entrance like it had always been there and always would be.
The lobby was quiet in a way that felt intentional.
Marble floors. Soft lighting. Air that was too cold.
The receptionist looked at me like she had already been informed I would arrive.
“Mr. Kessler is expecting you,” she said.
Of course he was.
The elevator ride up felt longer than it should have.
When the doors opened, he was already waiting.
Richard Kessler stood by the window, hands behind his back, looking at the city like it belonged to him.
“Miss Lin,” he said without turning. “Punctual. I appreciate that.”
“I don’t like wasting time,” I replied.
He turned slowly.
His eyes were the same as Caleb’s in shape, but not in anything else.
Colder. Sharper. Measured in a different way.
He studied me for a moment too long.
Then he placed a folder on the table and slid it toward me.
No seat offered.
No greeting softened.
“I will be direct,” he said.
“Please do,” I answered.
“I know about the contract. I know the terms. The duration. The payments.”
He tapped the folder once.
“I also know about your mother’s condition. Her current treatment failing. And the experimental protocol she needs that is not covered.”
My fingers tightened slightly.
“Forty thousand dollars,” he said. “Transferred directly to her treatment account. Today. Before you leave this building.”
The room felt smaller.
Not physically.
Just heavier.
“In exchange,” he continued, “you end the arrangement. Quietly. You tell my son you changed your mind. You walk away. And you do not mention this conversation again.”
I didn’t speak immediately.
Because the words were sitting in my chest before I could organize them.
“And if I say no?” I asked.
His expression didn’t change.
“I pull Caleb’s funding immediately,” he said. “He misses camp registration. He misses scout evaluation. His draft year ends before it begins.”
A pause.
Then:
“And your mother’s treatment does not happen.”
Silence filled everything after that.
The city outside the window looked completely unaffected.
People were still moving. Cars still passing. Life still continuing without interruption.
Like nothing important had just been decided.
I thought about Caleb.
About the way he said then pull it without hesitation.
About how easy it had sounded for him to choose me.
About how different this was.
I thought about Mom.
Her breathing at night.
Slow. Fragile. Still there, but not guaranteed to stay that way.
One.
Two.
Three.
“I will think about it,” I said finally.
“Sunday,” he replied. “I will need your answer by Sunday.”
No negotiation.
No extension.
Just pressure in its cleanest form.
I turned and walked to the elevator.
The doors closed behind me.
And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was leaving a conversation.
I felt like I was leaving a trap I had already stepped into.
I didn’t cry inside the building.
I didn’t cry in the elevator.
I didn’t cry until I was outside.
The moment the air hit me, everything broke at once.
I pressed my palms against the cold stone wall and tried to breathe normally.
People walked past me.
A bus went by.
Someone laughed on the phone like nothing in the world had changed.
My phone buzzed.
Caleb: Thinking about you. How is your afternoon?
I stared at the message for a long time.
Then typed:
Mia: I need some space for a couple of days. I’ll explain when I can. I’m sorry.
Four seconds.
That’s how long it took.
Caleb: What happened. Are you okay. Mia talk to me.
I turned the phone off.
And stood there while the world kept moving like nothing inside me was collapsing at all.