He said he owed five million to loan sharks. Said if he didn't pay up, they'd break his legs.
I worked my day job, then stayed up all night drafting plans for him, selling them one by one.
The day I coughed blood, he showed up with ginseng soup. Mouth full of how much he ached for me—phone still open to another woman, the two of them picking a honeymoon destination.
Later I collapsed outside the emergency room, and a message from him lit up my screen：
“If you don't come back and sign the divorce papers, I'll let her have the baby in the apartment you paid for.”
I gripped the phone as they wheeled me through the doors into emergency resus.
The nurse said：“Stop looking. Your hands are shaking.”
……
When Eustace Delgado dropped to his knees in front of me, it was already past one in the morning.
I'd just gotten home from overtime. Hadn't even finished changing my shoes before he threw himself forward, kneecaps cracking against the tile.
“Gayle, please. I've never begged anyone in my life. I'm begging you.”
I froze, then crouched down to help him up.
He wouldn't move. His fingers locked around my wrist, nails digging into skin.
“Five million. Loan sharks. Due next Wednesday. If I can't pay, they'll break my legs first, then show up at the company, then……”
His voice broke.
“Then I'll have nothing left.”
I'd known Eustace for six years. Married for two.
He was the kind of man who kept his back straight in front of anyone. Never softened his words. Never bowed his head.
Now he was on his knees in front of me, shaking all over, like a cat pinned by the throat.
“How did you end up owing that much?”
“Cash flow at the company dried up. I took out a bridge loan, but the project fell through, and the interest kept compounding……”
He buried his face against my knees. “I was afraid to tell you. Afraid you'd worry. But I've run out of options.”
My mind was a wreck.
Five million. Everything we had saved together came to less than four hundred thousand. The apartment still had a mortgage. Even selling it wouldn't be enough.
“I'll figure something out.”
I heard my own voice, dry as sandpaper.
Eustace lifted his head. His eyes were rimmed red.
“Really?”
“Really. Get up first.”
His legs buckled when he stood, and he nearly went down again.
I caught him and felt the trembling running through his entire body.
It wasn't fake.
At least in that moment, I didn't think it was fake.
That night Eustace didn't come to bed. He tossed and turned on the living room sofa.
I lay in the dark, listening to him on the phone outside, his voice pressed low, drifting in broken fragments through the wall.
“Just a few more days……my wife's working on it……we're not running……”
I pressed my face into the pillow.
What could I even do?
I drew buildings for a living. A little over twenty thousand a month. Even without eating or drinking, that was twenty years.
The only option was freelance work on the side.
The next day, I started picking up outsourced architectural design jobs online.
Houses, offices, small civic projects—whatever came in, I took it.
Eight hundred per rendering. Twenty thousand for a full set of construction drawings.
Clients pushed for tight deadlines, so the only way through was pulling all-nighters.
The first night, I worked until three a.m.
The second night, four a.m.
The third night, I fell asleep at my desk. When I woke up it was already light out, drool all over my keyboard, my neck so stiff I couldn't turn it.
Eustace brought in a cup of honey water and set it beside my hand.
“Gayle, don't push yourself so hard. Your health matters more.”
He stood behind me, rested his hand on my shoulder, and gave it a gentle squeeze.
I caught a scent on him. Not our body wash. Something sweet and cloying, like perfume.
I didn't remember anything in our apartment smelling like that.
“Did you switch body wash?”
His hand paused.
