JESSYCA WOKE FROM THE NIGHTMARE drenched in sweat, the bedsheet clinging to her body as though trying to suffocate her. Her heart pounded wildly, and her ragged breathing betrayed the panic that still gripped her. For weeks, the feeling had refused to leave her—the certainty that someone was watching her, even when every door was locked, every curtain drawn, and the apartment monitored by security cameras.
Every night, at around three in the morning, the same sound—a child's piercing cry—echoed from the guest bedroom, even though she knew she was alone. The echo of that child's voice robbed her of both sleep and sanity.
She seriously considered canceling her trip to London. The contract could wait. Her mental health could not. But her manager's voice cut through the phone like a cold blade.
— If you do that, my dear, you'll lose the contract. Do you know what that means?
That question left no room for hesitation. Jessyca knew exactly what it meant: the end. The ruin of everything she had built since her teenage years. Ever since childhood, she had been molded for success, taught to swallow her tears and deceive her fears, to smile while her heart bled, and to pay whatever price was necessary—whether it meant stepping over her rivals or accepting the darkest of deals.
Standing before the full-length mirror in her white marble suite, she stared at her own reflection and remembered the day it had all begun...
WEARING SHORTS AND A FLORAL T-SHIRT, the man approached her beneath the scorching sun. She was fifteen years old, spending her vacation with friends on a beach along Brazil's northeastern coast. Lying on the warm sand, her eyes half-closed, her skin sun-kissed, and her innocence on the verge of being bargained away, she was startled when the stranger sat down in front of her as though he already knew she had been waiting for him.
He appeared to be around forty years old, with translucent blue eyes and the smile of a man who carried secrets.
— You're very beautiful, — he complimented her, his American accent as striking as the woody fragrance of his cologne.
Jessyca frowned.
— Thank you, but I already have a boyfriend.
The man chuckled, a short laugh that was almost paternal.
— I'm not interested in your heart, young lady. I can make you the greatest supermodel in the world. Are you interested?
She sat up, curiosity sparkling in her eyes like someone who had caught the scent of opportunity.
— And what do I have to do?
— Fame comes at a price. Your father has already paid part of it... — he replied, before she interrupted him.
— My father is dead. He was murdered.
The man remained unfazed.
— Before he died, he signed a contract.
Jessyca swallowed hard and looked toward the sea.
— I don't have any money, — she murmured.
— Don't worry. Money isn't what I want. You'll become a millionaire, Jessyca, but that won't be how you'll repay me.
His gaze was so unwavering that it seemed to pierce straight through her.
— Do you want to sleep with me? — she ventured suspiciously.
He laughed again, a dark, unsettling laugh.
— You won't repay me with your body or with money, but you will have to fulfill the contract. When the time comes.
— Well, that sounds easy enough... — she mocked, trying to hide her nervousness.
— Is that a yes? — he asked, his tone carrying the weight of a covenant being sealed.
— Yes.
Three days later, she was approached by a representative from the most powerful modeling agency in New York. One month later, she landed in America. Fame came like a violent wave: magazine covers, multimillion-dollar contracts, jewelry, mansions, red carpets. Yet the man in the shorts and floral T-shirt never appeared again. Even so, on nights of absolute silence, she had the unsettling feeling that he had never truly left.
THE DOORBELL INTERRUPTED her thoughts, and the sound made her flinch.
Damn... I'm not expecting anyone. — she thought, alarmed. — Who the hell shows up unannounced at this time of night?
She silently made her way to the door, her bare feet gliding across the cold floor, and looked through the peephole. An elderly couple stood outside.
They must be new neighbors... — she assumed, taking a deep breath before unlocking the door.
She opened it slowly.
— Hello! What a pleasure it is to live in the same building as Jessyca Volpi! — said the man, who appeared to be well over sixty years old. His voice was gentle, yet carried something she couldn't quite identify.
— A pleasure indeed... — echoed the woman, her hair heavily teased and her bright red lipstick applied a little too generously.
Jessyca forced a smile.
— I'm sorry. I just got home, and I'll be traveling in a few hours. Perhaps we can have coffee when I return.
— When you return? — the man asked enigmatically.
— That's right.
The woman exchanged a glance with her husband.
— That won't be possible, will it, Robert?
— No, Emily, it won't.
— What do you mean? — Jessyca asked, growing uncomfortable.
— We have a mutual friend. — the man replied.
— Who?
— Sammy. — the woman answered with a faint smile.
The name sent an icy chill through Jessyca's veins.
— I don't know anyone by that name.
— I told you she'd be ungrateful. — Robert muttered.
— Don't be cruel, dear. She simply forgot. — The woman turned back to Jessyca.
— Sammy, my dear... is the man who gave you all of this.
The air vanished from the model's lungs.
— The man from the beach? — she whispered, her voice trembling.
— Exactly... — Emily confirmed, extending a white envelope toward her. — He asked us to deliver this to you personally.
Jessyca took it with trembling hands.
— A letter? — she murmured, trying to disguise her terror.
— Have a good evening, — Robert said.
— And... we're sorry about the coffee. — Emily added with a smile.
Before walking away, she looked at Jessyca one last time and added:
— The time has come, my dear.
— Time for what? — she asked, but the answer came coldly.
— To pay your debt.
The couple turned their backs and disappeared down the hallway.
Jessyca hurriedly shut the door, turning the lock three times. Her body trembled, and her heart pounded against her chest. She sat down in the living room armchair and, with sweaty hands, tore open the envelope. Inside was nothing but a single folded sheet of paper and the faint scent of sea breeze. Even before reading the first words, she knew.
That man—Sammy—had returned to collect what was owed to him.