My husband and I were packing our suitcases for a vacation we had taken out a loan for the day before. I was already closing the bag when a call came from the bank: “We reviewed your loan again and discovered something you need to see in person. Please come alone and don’t tell your husband anything…”

“Got it,” my husband Logan said from the bed, tossing in his swim trunks like we weren’t about to fly to Cancun on borrowed money. “See? Easy.”

I forced a smile and pressed the corners of my sundress down into the bag. The vacation had been his idea—“We need a reset, Brooke. Just one week. We deserve it.” He’d said it like the word deserve could erase the numbers on our credit card statements.

Yesterday, we’d sat in a glass-walled office at Crescent Federal, signing paperwork for a personal loan to cover the trip and “a few extras.” Logan had done most of the talking. He always did. He joked with the loan officer, Maya Torres, and called me “the responsible one,” like it was cute.

Now, the night before we left, I was already closing the bag when my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered, expecting a spam call. Instead, a calm voice said, “Ms. Bennett? This is Crescent Federal. My name is Maya Torres. I’m calling about your loan.”

My stomach dipped. “Is something wrong?”

“We reviewed your loan again,” she said, and her tone sharpened into something careful, “and discovered something you need to see in person.”