Chapter 3 - The Debt of the Stitches
The silence between them was deafening.
Under the table, Samson shifted his weight, letting out a low, content sigh against Wren’s ankle. The giant dog recognized her scent—the faint aroma of disinfectant, lavender, and old wool that had comforted him five years ago when he was shivering on a metal operating table.
Wren looked Nathaniel dead in the eye. She was terrified, but three years of surviving on the razor's edge of poverty had stripped her of the ability to cower.
"Five years ago," Wren said, her voice steady. "The Southside Emergency Vet Clinic. A four-month-old mastiff puppy with a crushed rib and a torn snout. I held the anesthesia mask over his nose while the doctor cleaned out the infected tissue."
Nathaniel’s hand on the silver pen went still.
"You," he murmured.
"He was dying," Wren continued, her tone sharpening with old memory. "He’d been used as a punching bag in a pit fight near the river. I stayed up for two nights holding a warm compress against his chest so he wouldn't freeze to death in his cage. Then three of your men came in, handed over an envelope of cash, and dragged him away before I could even finish his antibiotic cycle."
She leaned forward slightly, her small frame defying his towering presence.
"I spent three weeks worrying if he survived," she spat softly. "And now I see he’s lying under a white-cloth restaurant table eating scraps from a mob boss."
For three long seconds, Nathaniel Vance simply stared at her.
Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. A genuine, quiet chuckle escaped his throat—a sound so foreign coming from him that two security guards standing discretely by the front door shifted their posture in surprise.
"A mob boss," Nathaniel repeated, testing the words. "Is that what I am to you?"
"You just told me my best friend owes you twenty-five grand," Wren snapped. "You brought a fighting dog into a fine-dining establishment without a leash, and the manager looks like he's about to wet his pants. What else should I call you?"
"Practical," Nathaniel said smoothly. "I call myself practical."
The waiter arrived, trembling as he placed two white porcelain plates onto the table. The sea bass was perfectly seared, glistening under the warm lighting. The waiter set down a glass of water for Wren—no ice, just as requested—and bolted back toward the kitchen without offering a single word.
Nathaniel picked up his fork, casually cutting a small piece of fish. "I spent eighteen months searching for the person who saved Samson that night."
Wren blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"The vet clinic burned down six months after that night," Nathaniel explained, his eyes darkening slightly at the memory. "Arson. The head doctor left town. The records were destroyed. All I knew was that a young female intern had refused to let my men take the dog until they promised he would be kept indoors."
He pointed his fork toward her scuffed shoes.
"I’ve had my men looking for that intern for four years," Nathaniel said softly. "I wanted to thank her."
"Dahlia didn't know," Wren realized, her eyes widening. "She thought she was just handing you a poor waitress to clear her debt."
"Dahlia is an idiot who thinks she’s clever," Nathaniel said flatly. "She mentioned a waitress at this bistro who spent her break feeding stray cats behind the dumpster and refused to take stolen tips. I put two and two together."
He took a small bite of his meal, chewed slowly, and set his fork down.
"Your debt is gone, Wren."
Wren paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. "What?"
"Your mother's debt," Nathaniel said, as if discussing the weather. "The forty-one thousand dollars owed to St. Jude’s Medical Trust. It was paid in full at four o'clock this afternoon."
Wren’s breath hitched in her chest. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Forty-one thousand dollars—the crushing, suffocating weight that had kept her awake every night, that had forced her to sleep four hours a day and wear glued shoes—was simply gone?
"I... I can't accept that," Wren stammered, her voice trembling with a mix of shock and anger. "I don't take money from people like you."
"It wasn't a gift," Nathaniel said, leaning back in his chair, his eyes pinning her to her seat. "It was a payment for services rendered five years ago. You saved my dog’s life. I don't like owing debts."
He pulled a thin, black leather wallet from his jacket, placed a stack of hundred-dollar bills onto the table to cover the untouched meal, and stood up.
Samson immediately rose from beneath the table, his massive form towering beside his master.
"The date is over, Wren," Nathaniel said quietly. "Go home. Get some sleep. And untie your apron."
May you like
He turned and walked toward the exit, the giant mastiff trotting silently at his heel. The room remained dead silent until the heavy glass doors closed behind them.
Wren sat alone at table eleven, staring at the untouched sea bass, her hands shaking uncontrollably against her lap.
