The Heirs Unexpected Desire

CHAPTER 1

EMILIA

If I’d known danger was about to walk into our shop, I would’ve at least combed my hair.

-

The shop was quiet this afternoon, too quiet. Only the soft sound of the sewing machine filled the air as I stitched the last buttons onto a pale-blue dress. My mother sat just a few feet away from me, fixing a tear in an old coat someone had begged us to repair. The faint scent of fabric glue and dust hung around us.

We called it Hart Studio now, but it was barely a studio.. just two tables, a rack of thrifted clothes, and our old sign from the days my father still owned his company.

Back then, we lived in a house with a garden and two cars in the driveway. But when he got sick, everything went fast. His company fell apart, the hospital bills piled up, and by the time he died, there wasn’t a single thing left in our name. His family took what was left of the house, saying they had “helped enough.”

Now it was just me and Mom trying to survive.

“Emmy,” Mom said softly, breaking my thoughts. “Did Mrs. Keller pay yet?”

“Not yet,” I said, keeping my focus on the fabric. “She said she’ll pay tomorrow after work.”

My mother sighed and nodded, though her face didn’t relax. She flipped a page in the worn-out ledger, the edges brown from use. “We still owe rent,” she said quietly. “And the light bill. And that supplier keeps calling.”

“I know,” I muttered, tying a thread. “But we’ll figure it out. Tomorrow, Keller pays. And maybe that boutique downtown will confirm the order.”

Mom tried to smile, but her eyes were heavy. She adjusted her scarf as i noticed her hands shaking slightly.

“You’re pale,” I said, frowning. “You feeling okay?”

She shook her head. “Just tired.”

“You’ve been saying that all week.”

“I said I’m fine,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. “We should finish these pieces if we want to eat tonight.”

I didn’t believe her, but I let it go. She hated when I worried. I picked up another dress and started fixing a hem, but my thoughts drifted again—to Fred my boyfriend.

He wasn’t rich, not even close. He worked at a small auto shop downtown, always coming home with grease on his hands and a smile that made everything feel a bit easier. He wasn’t perfect, but he was kind. Lately, I’d been wondering if I could ask him for help. Maybe a small loan, just to ease things for Mom. She’d never allow it, but maybe if I could get it quietly, I could surprise her.

I was still lost in thought when the shop door burst open.

The sharp sound of metal hitting glass made both of us jump. The sewing machine went still under my hands.

“Who could that be?” I muttered, glancing at the clock. We weren’t expecting anyone.

The door swung wide again, and before I could take a step, a group of men walked in.

All in dark suits.

Not the kind that looked like bankers or salesmen, their faces were too hard, their eyes too cold. One of them locked the door behind him.

My breath caught. “Can I help you?”

The one in front, tall with slicked-back hair and a scar on his jaw, smiled in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ve been looking for Mrs. Hart.”

Mom went still beside me. The color drained from her face.

“I’m Mrs. Hart,” she said carefully. “What’s this about?”

He stepped closer, his shoes heavy on the old tile. “We’re from the Rothvale family. We’ve been trying to reach you about a debt. Your late husband borrowed from us some years ago.”

My chest tightened. “What debt?”

He looked at me briefly, then turned back to Mom. “Don’t play dumb. We’ve called, sent letters, even dropped by before. No answers.”

Mom swallowed hard. “My husband’s dead,” she said, her voice trembling. “You can’t collect from a dead man.”

“True,” the man said, smirking. “But his name lives on… and so do his debts.”

He pulled a folded paper from his coat and threw it on the counter. It slid toward us. My mother’s shaking hands opened it, and I saw my father’s name written in fading ink.

“See? Still valid,” he said.

Mom tried to speak, but her voice broke. “Please, give us some time—”

The man slammed his fist against the counter so hard the measuring tape bounced. “You’ve had time. Years of it.”

My heart pounded.

Two of the men started moving through the studio, opening drawers, flipping ledgers, lifting fabric as if looking for something. One of them kicked over a stool, the sound loud and sharp.

“Stop it!” I shouted. “This is a place of work, not some—”

“Quiet,” the leader snapped, his eyes locking on me. “You must be the daughter.”

I clenched my fists. “We’ll pay you what we can. Just leave my mother alone.”

He laughed. “You think pocket change can fix this? You owe the Rothvales six figures.”

I felt my knees weaken. That was impossible.

Mom looked close to fainting, gripping the edge of the counter for balance. One of the men moved toward her, muttering something under his breath, and when he reached out as if to grab her arm, I screamed.

“Don’t touch her!”

Everything stopped for a moment.

Then a deep voice spoke from the doorway. Calm and controlled.

“Enough.”

The man who had reached for my mother froze mid-step.

The others turned instantly, backs straight as if a switch had been flipped.

“Sir,” one of them said quickly.

The man who walked in didn’t need to shout. His suit was sharp, black, and perfectly fitted. An unlit cigarette dangled between his fingers. His hair was dark, but faint silver streaks brushed his temples, giving him that kind of dangerous elegance you only see in people who know they’re untouchable.

He looked around the studio, the torn fabric, the overturned stool, the cracked counter and smiled faintly. “This,” he said, his tone smooth but cutting, “is where the late Mr. Hart’s genius led him?”

No one answered.

He moved closer, his shoes making soft sounds against the worn floor. For a second, his eyes landed on my mother, her trembling hands clutching the edge of the table. Then his gaze shifted to me.

I saw the moment he noticed the resemblance. Something flickered in his expression, but it disappeared just as fast.

“You must be the daughter,” he said quietly. “Emilia Hart.”

I tried to sound steady. “Who are you?”

He slipped one hand into his pocket, the other still holding that unlit cigarette. “Vincent Rothvale.”

The name hit like a cold wave. I’d heard of him. Everyone had.

“I believe your father owed my family quite a sum,” he said, calm as if talking about the weather. “Six figures, to be exact.”

Mom flinched beside me. “My husband’s dead,” she said softly. “What more can you ask of a dead man?”

Vincent gave a small, humorless smile. “True. But in our world even death doesn’t save one from debts..”

He took a step closer. “Now, I’m not unreasonable. I came here for payment. Not excuses.”

My mother’s voice cracked. “Then please, just give us some time—”

He tilted his head slightly. “Time?” he echoed. “You’ve had a luxury of it, Mrs. Hart.”

The words hung heavy in the air. His men stood still, waiting for a signal. Vincent looked around again. at the scattered tools, the framed photos on the wall, the half-finished dresses. “You can’t tell me this,” he said, his tone sharper now, “is all you have left.”

I stepped forward before I even realized it. “We’ll pay you,” I said. “Somehow.”

His eyes moved back to me. “You?” he said softly, almost curious. “And how exactly will you do that, Miss Hart?”

“I’ll find a way,” I said quickly. “I’ll work, take on more orders—”

He interrupted with a short, cold laugh. “Do you even know how much your father owed?”

When I didn’t answer, he took a folded document from his coat and tossed it on the counter. The paper slid until it stopped by my hand. My father’s signature was there.

“Six hundred and eighty thousand,” he said. “You think sewing will cover that?”

My chest tightened. I felt my mother’s hand brush mine, trembling. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t do this here.”

Vincent watched her for a long moment. Then, finally, he exhaled, the tension in the room dipping just a little.

“You really don’t have it,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

He took a slow step back, running a thumb along his jaw as if thinking. “There might be… another way.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

He looked up at me, his eyes unreadable. “Meet me tomorrow,” he said. “Ten o’clock.”

“Meet you??” I asked.

He pulled a card from his inner pocket and slid it across the counter. “Ritzmore Hotel,” he said — one of the city’s most luxurious. “Ask for me.”

Mom’s voice shook. “What happens if we don’t come?”

Vincent smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Then I send my men again. And next time, I won’t stop them.”

He placed an envelope of cash beside the card. “For the damages,” he said, almost like an afterthought. “A gesture of good faith.”

Mom’s eyes lingered on the money, torn between pride and desperation. I wanted to throw it back, but my throat was tight. We needed it.

Vincent gave her a polite nod. “Mrs. Hart.” His gaze shifted to me. “Miss Hart.”

He turned toward the door, his men stepping aside to let him pass. Just before he left, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.

“Don’t be late tomorrow,” he said softly. “You might not like what happens if you are.”

The door closed behind them.

EMILIA

I couldn’t sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Vincent Rothvale’s face.. calm, unreadable, and terrifying in its certainty. His voice played in my head like a loop: “Six hundred and eighty thousand.” I didn’t even know my father owed that much. I didn’t know we owed anyone anything at all.

It made sense now, the worry lines on my mother’s face, the sleepless nights, the way she’d been shrinking a little more every day. She’d been carrying this weight alone, protecting me from it.

And now it was on me too.

I laid awake staring at the ceiling until the weak morning light pushed through the curtains. My chest felt heavy, like something had settled there overnight and decided not to leave.

I finally sat up and rubbed my eyes. The house was quiet. I got dressed and started tidying the small living room, just to keep my hands busy. The radio played songs faintly on the counter, but it didn’t help.