THE BILLIONAIRE'S BLOOD CONTRACT

Elara's POV The cold liquid hit my face before I could react. I gasped, stumbling backward as champagne dripped down my cheeks, soaking into my work shirt. The entire restaurant seemed to go silent. "Are you completely daft?" the woman screamed, her face red with fury. "I said no ice! NO ICE! How hard is that to understand?" I blinked champagne out of my eyes, staring at her in shock. She was maybe forty, dripping in diamonds, wearing a dress that probably cost more than I made in six months. Her perfectly manicured hand still held the empty champagne glass she'd just thrown in my face. "I... I'm sorry, ma'am," I stammered, grabbing napkins from a nearby table. "I'll get you another—" "Another?" She laughed, the sound shrill and cruel. "You think I want you touching my drink again? You can't even follow simple instructions! What kind of establishment hires people like you?" Heat flooded my face. Not from embarrassment. From anger. I'd been on my feet for eight hours straight. This was my second job today. I'd already worked a morning shift at a coffee shop before coming here. I was exhausted, hungry, and running on three hours of sleep. And this woman had just thrown a drink in my face because there was ice in her champagne. Ice that she hadn't mentioned she didn't want when she ordered. "Maybe if you'd actually specified no ice when you ordered, I would have known," I said before I could stop myself. The woman's mouth fell open. "Excuse me?" "You heard me." The words kept coming, fueled by exhaustion and frustration. "You ordered champagne. You didn't say anything about ice. I'm not a mind reader. If you want something specific, you need to actually say it instead of assuming everyone should just know what you want." Her face turned an even deeper shade of red. "How dare you speak to me that way! Do you know who I am?" "I don't care who you are. That doesn't give you the right to throw drinks at people." The woman opened her mouth to respond, but a voice cut through the tension. "What is going on here?" My stomach dropped. Mr. Peterson, the restaurant manager, pushed through the small crowd that had gathered. He was a short, balding man with a perpetually irritated expression. He looked at me, at the champagne dripping off my face, at the furious woman, and his eyes went cold. "Elara," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "My office. Now." "She threw a drink at me," I said quickly. "I was just—" "I don't want to hear it." He turned to the woman with a smile that looked painful. "Mrs. Whitmore, I am so deeply sorry. Please, allow me to comp your entire meal and offer you—" "I don't want compensation," Mrs. Whitmore interrupted, pointing at me. "I want her fired. Immediately." Mr. Peterson's jaw tightened. He looked at me again, and I saw my fate written in his eyes. "Apologize," he said quietly. "What?" "Apologize to Mrs. Whitmore. Now." I looked at the woman, who was watching me with a smug smile. Then at my boss, who clearly didn't care that I'd been assaulted with a glass of champagne. Every part of me wanted to refuse. To tell them both exactly what I thought of them. But I needed this job. Desperately. I swallowed my pride and forced the words out. "I apologize, Mrs. Whitmore. It won't happen again." The woman's smile widened. "No, it won't. Because you're going to fire her, aren't you, Mr. Peterson?" "Mrs. Whitmore, I'm sure we can—" "Fire her. Or I'll make sure everyone I know hears about how this establishment treats its customers." Mr. Peterson's face went pale. He turned to me, and for a moment, I thought I saw sympathy in his eyes. Then it was gone. "You're fired," he said. "Effective immediately. And I'm docking your final paycheck to cover the cost of Mrs. Whitmore's meal." Something inside me snapped. "You're docking my pay?" I repeated, my voice rising. "For a meal I didn't eat? For a drink she threw at me?" "You were rude to a customer. That's grounds for—" "I quit." The words came out before I fully processed them. Mr. Peterson blinked. "What?" "I said I quit." I reached down and grabbed the hem of my work shirt. Thank God I'd worn a tank top underneath. I yanked the shirt over my head, not caring that my hair was a mess or that everyone was staring. I threw the damp, champagne-soaked shirt directly at Mrs. Whitmore's face. She shrieked as it hit her, stumbling backward. "You're right," I said, my voice carrying through the silent restaurant. "I am too good to work in a place that treats people like this. So congratulations, you got what you wanted." I grabbed my bag from behind the bar and walked toward the exit. "Elara!" Mr. Peterson called after me. "You can't just—" "Watch me." I pushed through the door and out into the cold evening air. The satisfaction lasted exactly thirty seconds. Then reality crashed over me like a wave. I'd just quit my job. One of three jobs I desperately needed to pay my father's debts. I pressed my hands to my face, trying not to cry. I started walking, my feet carrying me toward the subway station. I'd go home, take a shower, wash the champagne out of my hair. Tomorrow I'd start looking for another job. The subway ride felt longer than usual. Every stop seemed to take forever. By the time I finally reached my neighborhood in Queens, it was fully dark. I walked the three blocks to my apartment building, exhausted and ready to collapse. Then I saw them. My things. Scattered on the sidewalk outside my building. My art supplies. My clothes. My books. Everything I owned, just thrown on the dirty street like garbage. "No," I whispered, breaking into a run. "No, no, no." Men in dark suits were carrying furniture out of the building. My furniture. My father's furniture. The couch where I'd spent countless nights studying. The table where we used to eat dinner together. "Stop!" I screamed, running toward them. "What are you doing? That's my stuff!" One of the men turned to look at me but didn't stop. He just kept loading boxes into a truck parked at the curb. "Excuse me!" I grabbed his arm. "You can't just take my things!" "Ma'am, please step back," he said, shaking off my grip. "No! This is my apartment! Those are my things! You have no right—" "Actually, we do." The voice came from behind me. I spun around. A man stood near the entrance to my building. He was maybe fifty, wearing an expensive suit and glasses that glinted in the streetlight. He held a clipboard in one hand and looked at me with the cold indifference of someone who'd done this a hundred times before. "Who are you?" I demanded. "Mitchell & Associates. We're a debt collection agency representing several creditors your father owed money to." The world tilted. "My father's debts were being handled," I said, my voice shaking. "I've been making payments. I—" "Your payments haven't been sufficient." He consulted his clipboard. "You're currently six months behind on multiple accounts. Total amount owed: three hundred seventy-two thousand dollars." The number hit me like a physical blow. Three hundred seventy-two thousand dollars. "That's not possible," I whispered. "It was supposed to be less. Much less." "Interest," the man said simply. "Late fees. Collection costs. It adds up." I watched as another man carried out my mother's painting. The one my father had commissioned of her before she died. The only picture I had left of her. "Please," I said, my voice breaking. "Please, you can't take that. It's not worth anything to you. It's just... it's all I have left of my mother." The man with the clipboard didn't even look up. "Everything in the apartment is being seized as partial payment for the outstanding debt." "I'll pay more," I said desperately. "I'll get another job. I'll work harder. I'll figure it out. Just please, give me more time." "You've had six months. Your time is up." Tears spilled down my cheeks. I didn't care that I was crying in front of strangers. Didn't care that people were stopping to stare. "Please," I begged. "Please, I have nowhere to go. You can't just throw me out on the street." "You have until morning to remove any remaining personal items. After that, the locks will be changed and the apartment will be surrendered to the landlord." He turned and walked away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk surrounded by my life in boxes. I sank to the ground, my legs giving out. Around me, the men continued loading the truck. Taking everything. My bed. My father's desk. The bookshelf he'd built for me when I was twelve. Gone. All of it. Gone. I pulled my knees to my chest and buried my face in my arms, sobbing. Six months ago, my father died and left me drowning in debts I didn't know existed. I'd dropped out of school. Worked myself to exhaustion. Sold everything valuable. It hadn't been enough. Nothing was ever enough. And now I had nothing. No job. No home. No family. No future. I sat there on the cold sidewalk, watching strangers load my entire life into a truck, and wondered how much lower I could possibly fall. I didn't know it yet, but I was about to find out. Because the worst was still coming.