Trapped
1989 Words
Trapped Chapter Two
Her POV
I went back home and checked my family into a run-down motel, the kind where the walls were too thin and the sheets smelled faintly of bleach. I bought a pack of ramen, and we ate together in silence. No one spoke. The weight of failure sat heavy at the table.
Tiara curled up on the bed afterward, sleeping quietly as if the world outside didn’t exist.
I went to bed early too, pretending I was tired, when really I just wanted to hide. I pressed my face into the pillow and cried myself to sleep, careful not to let anyone hear. A fire burned inside me — shame, disappointment, self-loathing. I told myself I had failed them. I had failed myself. For a moment, I blamed everyone else, but deep down I knew the truth: my reckless, lavish choices had finally caught up with me.
The next morning, I forced myself out of bed before dawn. If redemption had a face, I was determined to find it. I spent the entire day hunting for work, and by nightfall, I had secured three jobs — morning, afternoon, and night shifts. I never believed I could be that hardworking. But desperation has a way of molding you.
My mother picked up double shifts. My father found extra work wherever he could. Ivana landed a position in a gaming lounge, and Dave started working after school. For the first time in a long while, we weren’t just surviving as individuals — we were fighting as a family.
I never called Cardan Gordon again. I never dialed Jenna for help, either. We made a vow to get back on our feet with our own hands.
Life at the motel wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady. We weren’t rich, but we were satisfied. For once, satisfaction felt like victory.
One night, to celebrate our progress, we went out to a cheap restaurant. The kind where the menu was laminated and the waitress looked one bad day away from quitting. Still, it felt like a treat — a reward for our grit.
We placed our orders, laughter trying to creep back into our lives. For a fleeting moment, it felt almost normal.
Until Dave’s face went pale.
“Guys, I don’t feel too good,” he whispered.
Before we could react, his skin turned green, his chest heaving in shallow gasps. My mother rushed to steady him, panic flooding her eyes.
And that’s when it hit me — the one detail I had overlooked.
His allergies.
I lost it. My heart slammed against my ribs as I waved frantically at the waitress.
“Was there shellfish in his food?” I demanded.
Her eyes widened. “Oh my God—no. No, ma’am, there wasn’t,” she stammered.
“But he’s having a clear allergy attack!” My voice cracked, panic rising in my throat.
The waitress’s expression hardened, her tone suddenly sharp. “Ma’am, I’ve seen this trick before. Pay for the food.”
I blinked at her, stunned. “What? What do you take us for?”
“ Soraya, calm down, please. Let’s just speak to your manager,” Ivana said, trying to steady the situation.
“The manager isn’t in charge tonight,” the waitress snapped. “I’m in charge.”
“Call 911!” my mother screamed, because by then Dave had collapsed, his lips tinged blue.
My hands shook as I fumbled for my phone, dialing with clumsy fingers. The seconds dragged like hours until the paramedics stormed in, their urgency confirming what we already knew — this was real. Deadly real.
But even as they rushed Dave out, the waitress folded her arms and sneered. “Peasants. He was already sick before you got here. People like you are always looking for ways to cheat your bill.”
Her words cut deeper than knives, but I had no time to fight back. Mom climbed into the ambulance, clutching Dave’s hand as they sped toward the hospital. The rest of us trailed behind, fear knotting our stomachs, every breath heavy with dread.
She was crying so hard when we saw her that her body shook with every breath.
“It’s going to be fine,” I whispered, pulling her into my arms, even though I wasn’t sure if I believed it myself.
Dad appeared a moment later, his face pale, his voice heavy.
“His allergies are serious. He’s in the ICU right now… but there’s more. During the scans, they discovered a brain tumor. It’s already at a critical stage. He needs surgery—and he’ll need a specialist. Urgently.”
The words landed like a wrecking ball. Then he turned and walked away before anyone could even breathe a question.
At the reception desk, reality sank deeper.
“The estimated cost is three hundred thousand dollars,” the receptionist said flatly. “We’ll need payment before surgery.”
Three hundred thousand. No insurance. No safety net. Nothing.
“We could actually ask the restaurant to compensate us,” Ivana suggested, her voice trembling.
“Yeah… at least for the allergy,” I muttered, though even I knew it wouldn’t be nearly enough.
Mom broke down again, Dad tried to hold her together, and Ivana balanced Tiara in her arms, rocking her gently.
“I’ll go to the restaurant,” I said finally, my voice sharp with determination. “You try calling Jenna.” And before they could stop me, I was already out the door.
The restaurant looked just as cheap and careless as it had the night before. My blood boiled as I stormed inside and confronted the waitress.
“My brother is seriously ill because of your negligence. I demand compensation.”
She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. “What did I tell you about peasants? Always trying to scam their way into free money. Leeches.”
“Leech?” I snapped. “How much do you even have that we’d want to steal from you? You wonder why low people come here? Because your restaurant is already scraping the bottom. It’s pathetic. So either pay what you owe—or else.”
She smirked, unbothered. “Or else what? Sue us? Like you could afford a lawyer.”
Her words cut deep because they were true. I had nothing. No power. No leverage. Nothing but rage.
“Maybe I can’t touch you,” I hissed, my voice shaking. “But karma is a b***h. And she’s going to find you.” I slammed the door on my way out, the sound echoing like the last scrap of my pride.
---
By the time I returned to the hospital, the air was heavy with dread. Machines beeped from the ICU, and the tension in the halls felt suffocating.
I found Lana pacing, her face ashen.
“Where’s Jenna? Did you call her?” I asked desperately.
Ivana shook her head, tears streaking her face.
“She didn’t even hear me out… she just—” her voice broke, and she covered her mouth, shaking.
The ground beneath me seemed to tilt. Dave was slipping further away, and the only person who might have been able to save us had turned her back.
“She’s no longer picking her calls.” Ivana said
“Try texting her, then,” I said.
“It keeps saying message not delivered.” she replied
A hollow silence stretched between us.
“What about the restaurant?” she finally asked.
“They refused to compensate us,” I admitted, the bitterness raw in my voice.
“What if we sued them?”
I laughed harshly. “With what money?”
Her shoulders sagged. “True.”
“What are we going to do now?” she whispered.
My chest tightened. I couldn’t think of anything—except that deal. The one I swore I’d never take. The one I buried deep, praying I’d never need it.
“I can’t watch my brother just die like that,” I said, the words tearing through me like glass.
Without waiting for a response, I pushed to my feet. “I’m coming.” And I rushed out before fear or shame could stop me.
Back at the motel, desperation fueled my every move. I tore the place apart, searching drawers, bags, under the mattress—until at last, I found it. The card. Crumpled, bent, no longer pristine the way it had once been. It looked as battered as I felt.
My hands shook as I dialed the number.
The first time, it didn’t go through. Neither did the second. By the third attempt, I was nearly sobbing when a deep voice finally answered.
“Please,” I whispered, clinging to the last thread of hope. “Is the offer still open?”
“No,” he said flatly. “It closed a long time ago.”
“Please. I need it urgently. My brother is sick—he’s dying. I need the money. I’ll do it. Just… please, meet me.” My voice cracked under the weight of the words I swore I’d never say.
There was a pause. Then: “Okay.” And the line went dead.
Minutes later, a black car pulled up outside. A driver stepped out, wordless, and gestured for me to get in.
They drove me to an unfamiliar restaurant—sleek, cold, expensive. My pulse raced as I was escorted inside.
And there he was. Waiting. Sitting at a table, a newspaper in his hands, like this was just another ordinary evening.
For him, maybe it was. For me, it was the beginning of the end.
I slid into the chair across from him, my every movement cautious, fragile.
He lowered the newspaper slowly, eyes locking on mine. His voice was calm, but edged with steel.
“You must think of this as a joke.”
“No,” I said quickly, my throat dry. “I don’t. I just… I needed time to think.”
He leaned back, studying me with unsettling patience. And in that moment, I knew—whatever was about to happen, my life would never be the same again.
I stared at the contract like it was poison, each word dripping with the weight of my undoing. Neat black letters on crisp white paper — a lifeline, a trap, a promise of salvation at a price I wasn’t sure I could ever pay.
One child. No emotional attachment. A clean break after delivery.
And in return? Enough money to bury my debts. Enough to save my brother. Enough to finally breathe.
It sounded simple. But nothing about this was simple.
With trembling hands, I snapped the folder shut and marched into his office.
“I’m not doing this,” I said. My voice shook, but the words still cut the air.
He didn’t flinch. Just leaned back in his leather chair, exuding a calm so infuriating it bordered on cruel. Those eyes—dark, unreadable—studied me like I was a puzzle he had already solved.
“You came,” he said softly.
“I came to say no.”
The corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You came all this way… to tell me that?”
Before I could answer, he delivered the blow.
“My wife can’t give birth. Not for years. This isn’t about love, Miss Soraya. It’s about legacy. Control. Survival. Yours and mine.”
Silence thickened the room, pressing against my chest. For the first time, I saw him not as a billionaire wrapped in arrogance, but as a man suffocating beneath the weight of his perfect suit.
And maybe—just maybe—I was suffocating too.
My hand hovered over the contract, torn between pride and desperation. That’s when I noticed the last line I had missed before:
Clause 9: No emotional attachment. Ever.
- Writer
