The Chosen Heir

Chapter 4: The Man Who Wouldn't Pay

One man whistled sharply. “Braxton, should we help you throw his things out?” Braxton grinned at the suggestion. “Maybe I should. Let’s see how quickly he finds the money then.” The idea caught on. Someone shouted, “Let’s get the mattress first!” Laughter followed, louder this time.

Tessa’s cheeks burned red, her eyes darting between the faces, some cruel, some curious, all fixed on them like spectators at a street fight. Her voice trembled as she said, “We’ll pay. I swear we will. Just… please let us keep our dignity.” Her words were met with a low chuckle from a man leaning on a wooden crutch. “Dignity? In a compound like this? Pay your rent, then talk about dignity.”

Braxton gave Asher another shove, forcing him a step forward. “Tell them you’ll pay me, Booker. Tell them when.” Ash’s voice was flat. “End of the month.”

A woman cackled. “End of the month! That’s two weeks away. By then, maybe he’ll owe nineteen months!” The cruelty stung more than the landlord’s grip. Ash could feel the weight of every stare, every smirk, every whispered insult. It was as though the years of quiet struggle he had endured were being reduced to a single, ugly headline: “The Man Who Wouldn’t Pay.”

Tessa’s hand found his arm again, her grip desperate, as though she could anchor him against the tide of humiliation.

And then—

“Enough!”

The word was sharp, carrying over the noise like a whip crack. Heads turned. From the shadowed archway at the far end of the courtyard, Old Mr. Wale stepped forward. His cane tapped against the ground with slow, deliberate beats. His white hair caught the moonlight, giving him an almost silver glow. Braxton scowled. “Stay out of this, Wale. This is between me and my tenant.”

The old man’s voice was calm but carried an undeniable authority. “When you drag a man into the street, it stops being between the two of you. It becomes everybody’s business. And I don’t like the business I’m seeing tonight.” A few of the onlookers shifted uncomfortably.

“He owes me,” Braxton said, his voice tight. “Eighteen months, if you’ve forgotten.” “I haven’t forgotten,” Wale replied. “But I remember more than debts. I remember that a man is not to be shamed before his neighbors unless you’ve already judged him guilty beyond redemption. Has Booker promised to pay?” “He’s promised before,” Braxton said with a sneer.

“Has he promised now?”

Braxton hesitated, then muttered, “Yes. But...” “Then let him be,” Wale said firmly. “You’ve been patient for eighteen months. What is two more weeks to you?”

The crowd was quieter now, their earlier appetite for spectacle dimmed under the old man’s steady gaze. Braxton’s grip loosened slightly. “And if he doesn’t pay by then?”

“Then you do what you must,” Wale said. “But until then, let him keep his dignity. A man without dignity will find it harder to repay you than one who still believes himself capable.” The words hung in the air. Braxton glanced at the faces around them. The laughter had faded. The mocking eyes now darted between him and Wale, measuring the weight of the old man’s words.

Finally, Braxton released Ash's collar with a rough shove. “End of the month. If you don’t pay, you’re out.” He turned sharply and stalked back toward his car, the sound of his boots echoing in the silence.

Ash straightened his shirt, still staring at the ground. Tessa stood close to him, her hand still trembling in his. Wale stepped closer. His voice softened. “Booker, you’ve been given a reprieve. Don’t waste it. And don’t let these people’s words make you forget your worth.” Ash nodded slowly. “Thank you, sir.”

The old man gave a single nod, then turned back toward his flat, his cane tapping steadily against the dirt. One by one, doors closed again. The compound sank back into silence, but the night felt different now, thicker, heavier.

Asher and Tessa returned to their porch, neither speaking. Above them, the stars still burned, but they felt impossibly far away.