Chapter 61 The 5.5 Million Dollar Debt

Chapter 61 The 5.5 Million Dollar Debt
(Trish's POV)

"I am dying! Joseph, I am literally dying on the pavement! Call an ambulance! Call a priest!"

"Lift your knees, Trish! You’re not dying, you’re just experiencing the sensation of your heart actually doing its job for once!"

Joseph was running backward, backward! With an infuriatingly steady breath while I sounded like a broken vacuum cleaner.

"I hate you! I hate the sun! I hate the concept of 6:00 AM!" I wheezed, my lungs burning as we rounded the corner toward 7th Street. "If I collapse, just leave me for the crows. Tell my story. Tell them I died for a PE credit!"

"You’re doing great for a cave-dweller," he teased, his grin flashing in the early morning mist. "Only two more blocks. Keep that pace or I’m adding another lap."

"You wouldn't dare, you monster—"

We turned the final corner, my vision blurred by sweat, but the sight of the front porch snapped me into focus. Miss Britney was there, leaning against the railing. At first, I thought she was just watching our pathetic display, but as we got closer, I saw her hand trembling. Her face wasn't its usual warm bronze; it was an ashen, sickly grey.

She stepped forward to wave, but her knees gave out.

"Mom!" Joseph yelled, his athletic playfulness vanishing in a heartbeat.

We both sprinted, actually sprinted the last twenty yards. I reached her first, my small hands catching her under the arms just as she started to tilt toward the concrete. Joseph was right behind me, scooping her up and guiding her to the porch swing.

"Mom? Mom, talk to me," Joseph pleaded, his voice cracking with a fear I’d never heard from the Golden Boy.

I knelt at her feet, rubbing her cold hands. "We haven't brought it up because we didn't want to push you, but you’ve been off since the hospital. The doctors wouldn't tell us anything because you told them not to. Miss Britney, look at me. What is really happening?"

She leaned her head back, her eyes fluttering shut. After a long moment, she let out a jagged breath.

"It’s called Pernicious Psychosomatic Hypertension," she whispered. "The doctors say the chronic, long-term cortisol spikes from... well, from everything... have started to damage my cardiovascular system. It’s a stress illness, baby. A serious one. But I’m fine. I just need a soda, something to get my sugar up."

Joseph stood up, his face a mask of agony. "I'll get it. Stay with her, Trish."

As soon as his footsteps faded into the kitchen, I gripped her hands tighter.

"It’s more than the illness, isn't it? You’ve been out every day, coming back looking like you’ve been at war. It’s the house. Tell me what’s happening. Don't use 'debt'—tell me the truth."

Miss Britney sighed, looking up at the peeling paint of the porch ceiling.

"It’s a Cross-Collateralized Foreclosure, Trish. Years ago, when Marcus was... himself... we took out a secondary mortgage to keep the business afloat. But the bank bundled that debt with a high-interest Commercial Bridge Loan. Because the property value in Mthland has plummeted, we’ve hit an Equity Deficiency. The creditors are calling the entire balance due to avoid a total loss on their end. It’s a predatory 'Balloon Payment' clause."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "How much, Miss Britney? How much to clear the title and stop the foreclosure?"

"5.5 million dollars," she said, her voice sounding small and defeated.

I almost fell unconscious.

I felt myself slip into a trance, the air around me turning into ice. 5.5 million?

My heart felt like it had been dropped into a lead box. I had $497K in my account. I thought I was rich enough. I thought I was a savior. I thought I was a queen. But in the face of five and a half million, my "biggest contract ever" felt like pocket change.

I had thought $500,000 was "buy-the-block" money. In reality, it wasn't even ten percent of what she needed. I was about to throw in all of the money in my account at that moment, and see smiles on Joseph, and Miss Britney’s faces, but it didn't quite go as planned.

"Trish? Trish, honey, you’ve gone white as a sheet," Miss Britney said, reaching out to touch my cheek. "Don't you worry about those numbers. That’s grown-up talk. I shouldn't have said it."

I couldn't speak. My mind was racing through the terms of the New York Writers' contract. $500,000 was just the Upfront Advance. The real wealth, the shares, the royalties, the media assets—was all contingent on my performance in New York. I wasn't rich yet; I was just an Investment in Progress. To get to five million, I didn't just need to be a writer. I had to become a phenomenon.

In my heart, I screamed at her: “Just hold on. Please. Your daughter is here, but she needs more time. I have to get to New York. I have to be the best asset they’ve ever seen.”

"I’m okay," I finally managed to say, forcing a smile that felt like it was breaking my face. "Just... dizzy from the run."

Joseph came back with the soda, his eyes searching mine for answers I didn't have. I stood up, looking at the house that was currently being swallowed by a debt I couldn't yet pay.

"Don't worry, Miss Britney," I said, and this time, it wasn't just a lie. It was a vow. "You just focus on your health. Hold on a little longer. I’ve got a plan."

I had two weeks to pass PE. And then, I had a world to conquer, because a half-million dollars wasn't enough to save my family. I needed the whole vault.