The knock comes at 7:14 a.m.
Not loud.
Not polite.
Just firm enough to sound official.
Isavelle Croix freezes mid-step, one sock on, the other folded in her hand. The kettle on the stove clicks off behind her, steam hissing like it's annoyed she forgot about it. For a second, she considers not answering.
No one knocks like that unless they want something.
Another knock. Louder.
"Yes," she calls, her voice steady even though her pulse stutters. "Coming"
She crosses the apartment in three careful steps, her bare foot brushing the cold tile. When she opens the door, there's no man in uniform. No police badge. Just a woman in a gray blazer holding a flat envelope against her chest.
"Isavelle Croix?" the woman asks.
"Yes."
The woman extends the envelope. "You've been served."
"Served with what?"
The woman's lips press together, professional. "You'll find the details inside."
Isavelle looks at the envelope. Cream paper. Heavy. Her name typed neatly across the front, black ink, no title. No explanation.
"I didn't sign for anything," Isavelle says.
"You don't need to." The woman checks her clipboard. "You've been notified."
"Of what?" At this moment I confuse.
The woman steps back. "Have a good morning, Ms. Croix."
She turns and walks down the hallway without waiting for another word.
Isavelle stands in the doorway long after the sound of her heels disappears. The envelope feels heavier than paper should. Like it's pulling her arm down, like it wants her attention immediately.
She closes the door and locks it.
Twice.
Then she presses the envelope flat against the counter and stares at it.
"This is stupid," she mutters.
She opens it.
The first page has a seal at the top. The second has her father's name.
Her breath leaves her all at once.
"No," she says quietly.
She flips the page.
Notice of Reopened Investigation.
Her fingers tighten. The paper crinkles.
"That's not possible," she says, louder now, as if the document might argue back.
Her father has been dead for eight months.
Buried.
Grieved.
Closed.
She drops into the chair at the small dining table, the document spreading out in front of her like a crime scene. Dates. Case numbers. Language so formal it feels cruel.
Her phone buzzes.
She ignores it.
She reads.
Her father's name appears again and again, tied to words she's only ever seen in textbooks: fraud, misappropriation, breach. She flips to the last page and that's when she sees it.
A corporate entity listed as an injured party.
Viremont Global Holdings.
Her throat tightens.
She reads it again.
"Viremont?" she whispers.
Her phone buzzes again. This time she picks it up.
"Mara," she answers.
"Have you checked your email?" Mara's voice is breathless. "Because if this is some kind of sick joke"
"What's happening?" Isavelle asks.
"There's a notice circulating," Mara says. "About your dad. About reopened charges."
Isavelle swallows. "I know" and she breathes in nd out heavily.
"You know?" Mara pauses. "Isavelle, this is bad. Likereally bad."
"I just got served."
"Oh my God." Mara exhales. "I'm so sorry."
"For what?" Isavelle asks. "He's dead."
"That doesn't matter," Mara says carefully. "Not when corporations are involved."
"Corporations don't sue ghosts," Isavelle snaps.
"No," Mara says. "They sue estates. And heirs."
Silence settles between them.
"Say that again," Isavelle says.
"Heirs," Mara repeats. "Isavelle, are you listed?"
"I don't know." She flips the pages again. Her hands are shaking now. "I didn't see it,wait."
She reads the line twice.
"Yes," she whispers. "I am."
Mara curses under her breath. "Isavelle, you need a lawyer."
"I'm a law student."
"You need a better one."
Isavelle leans back in her chair, the wood pressing into her spine. "Who is Viremont?"
There's a pause.
"Mara?"
"That's… not a who," Mara says slowly. "That's a what."
"What does that mean?"
"It means money," Mara says. "Power. A lot of it."
"How much?"
"Enough to reopen graves."
Isavelle hangs up fifteen minutes later with a list of phone numbers and no sense of control. She dials the first attorney Mara recommends. It rings. Voicemail.
She tries another. Busy signal.
The third answers.
"Law offices of Hargreeve & Moss."
"Yes, hello my name is Isavelle Croix. I was just served a notice regarding my father's estate and"
"One moment."
Music fills her ear. Something cheerful and wrong.
She waits.
"Ms. Croix?" a new voice says.
"Yes."
"We're unable to represent you at this time."
"I haven't even explained the case."
"We're aware of it."
Isavelle's fingers curl around the phone. "Aware how?"
"I'm sorry," the man says. "Good luck."
The line goes dead.
She stares at the phone.
Then she laughs. Once. Sharp and humorless.
"Okay," she says to the empty room. "Okay."
She dials another number.
And another.
By noon, she's been turned away six times.
At one o'clock, her professor emails her.
Please come see me before class tomorrow.
No explanation.
Isavelle pushes her chair back and stands, pacing the narrow apartment. Her shoulders are tight, her jaw locked. She stops by the window and looks down at the street below.
Everything looks the same.
Cars move. People walk. Someone laughs.
Her phone buzzes again.
Unknown number.
She hesitates, then answers. "Hello?"
"Ms. Croix," a woman says smoothly. "My name is Maëlys Viremont."
Isavelle's stomach drops.
"I represent Viremont Global's public affairs division."
"Why are you calling me?" Isavelle asks.
"To ensure clarity," Maëlys replies. "We prefer transparency."
"About what?"
"Your father."
"My father is dead."
"Yes," Maëlys says. "But his actions are not."
Isavelle closes her eyes. "If this is about money, I don't have it."
"This is not a negotiation call," Maëlys says gently. "It's a courtesy."
"Courtesy would've been leaving us alone."
"Courtesy," Maëlys says, "is letting you know that what's coming is… extensive."
Silence stretches.
"Who are you really?" Isavelle asks.
"A messenger," Maëlys says. "And perhaps if you're wise and smart."
"Then help me," Isavelle says. "Tell me why this is happening now."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Because," Maëlys says, "Mr. Viremont has decided it's time."
Isavelle's chest tightens. "Decided what?"
"To collect."
The call ends.
Isavelle lowers the phone slowly.
Her reflection in the darkened window looks unfamiliar. Her eyes are too sharp. Her mouth too tight.
She looks back at the documents on the table.
At her father's name.
At the word Viremont printed like a verdict.
Her hands curl into fists at her sides.
"What do you want from me?" she whispers.
The room doesn't answer.
But somewhere far above the city, a man already knows.
And the question she can't stop thinking is
What exactly does collecting mean?