Bound By Contract Claimed By Obsession

The first slap came before Ava's eyes were fully open. "You worthless thing! You left the kitchen a mess last night!" Ava's cheek burned as she scrambled upright on the thin mattress she called a bed. Her adoptive mother, Margaret, stood over her, bathrobe tied tight, face twisted with the kind of hatred that had become as familiar as breathing. "I—I cleaned it before I went to sleep, Ma. I swear—" Another slap. Harder. "Don't you dare lie to me in my own house!" Margaret's voice cracked with fury. "Clara found crumbs on the counter. Crumbs, Ava. After everything I've done for you—after I took you in when nobody else wanted you—this is how you repay me?" Ava pressed her hand to her stinging cheek. She didn't argue. She had learned long ago that arguing only made it worse. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Margaret's lip curled. "Sorry doesn't clean the kitchen. Get up. Fix breakfast. And don't you dare be late for work again, or I'll throw your things on the street. See if I don't." She stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the thin walls. Ava sat still for a long moment, her breath shaky. Then she stood, pulled on her faded jeans and the only clean shirt she owned, and checked her reflection in the cracked mirror above her dresser. A red mark bloomed across her cheek. She touched it gently and sighed. It'll fade by noon, she told herself. It always does. --- Downstairs, the kitchen smelled of nothing because there was nothing cooking. Ava moved quickly, cracking eggs, frying bread, brewing coffee—the routine so ingrained her hands worked without thought. Clara sauntered in at seven, phone in hand, not looking up. She was twenty, three years younger than Ava, but carried herself like a queen. Her hair was perfect. Her nails were done. Her pajamas cost more than Ava's entire wardrobe. "Where's my coffee?" Clara asked flatly. Ava slid the mug across the counter. "Right here." Clara took a sip and grimaced. "Too much sugar. You're useless." "I'll remake it—" "Don't bother. I'll get something on the way to brunch." Clara finally looked up, her gaze landing on Ava's cheek. A smirk curled her lips. "Mom got you good, huh?" Ava said nothing. Clara laughed softly and walked out. Margaret appeared in the doorway. "You're still here? I told you to move. Don't come back late tonight. Clara's having friends over and I don't want them seeing you." Ava grabbed her bag and left without a word. --- The hospital was quiet at nine in the morning. It always was. Ava walked the familiar path to Room 412, her footsteps soft against the polished floor. She stopped in the doorway, and for a moment, she simply looked at him. Her father lay motionless, machines beeping softly, oxygen tube taped to his nose. His face was pale, his hands still. But even unconscious, he looked kind. He had always looked kind. "Hi, Papa," she whispered, sitting in the chair beside his bed. She took his hand. It was warm, at least. Warm meant alive. "I'm sorry I didn't come yesterday. Things got... busy." She swallowed hard. "I brought your favorite tea. I know you can't drink it, but I thought maybe you could smell it. You always said the smell of jasmine reminded you of your mother." She talked for a while—about the weather, about Clara's new handbag, about a stray cat she'd seen near the bus stop. Small things. Safe things. The kind of things you say when you're afraid the big things will break you. Then a knock came at the door. Ava turned. Dr. Bennett stood there, clipboard in hand, face carefully neutral. That expression alone made her stomach drop. "Miss Reyes? May I have a word?" --- In the hallway, Dr. Bennett spoke slowly, as if words could cushion the blow. They couldn't. "Your father's condition has worsened. The blockage in his heart is severe. He needs surgery—open-heart bypass—and soon." Ava's mouth went dry. "Okay. How much?" "I won't lie to you. It's expensive. After insurance, you're looking at somewhere close to eighty thousand dollars. And that's just the surgery itself. Recovery, medication, therapy—it all adds up." Eighty thousand dollars. The number hung in the air like a death sentence. "I don't..." Ava's voice cracked. "I don't have that kind of money. I don't have any money." Dr. Bennett's eyes softened. "I understand. But without the surgery, your father may not have much time. Weeks. Possibly less." The words hit her like a physical blow. Her knees buckled, and she grabbed the wall to stay upright. "Weeks," she repeated. "I'm so sorry." Ava nodded. She didn't cry. She had learned long ago that tears fixed nothing. She thanked the doctor and walked back into Room 412, closed the door, and sat beside her father again. She held his hand and pressed her forehead to his knuckles. "I'll fix it," she whispered. "I don't know how. But I'll fix it, Papa. I promise." --- She didn't remember leaving the hospital. She didn't remember the bus ride across town. She only remembered one thought, repeating over and over: I need to see him. I need to see Daniel. Daniel. Her boyfriend since freshman year. The one person in the world who made her feel like she mattered. The one person who had promised, over and over, that they would get married and leave all of this behind. Daniel, with his warm smile and his soft hands and his quiet reassurances. He would help her. He would hold her and tell her it would be okay. She climbed the stairs to his apartment, dug the spare key from her bag, and opened the door. "Ava—!" The voice came from the bedroom. Gasping. Panicked. Ava froze in the doorway. Daniel was in bed. With a woman. Her blonde hair fanned across the pillow. Her lipstick smeared on his mouth. For one long, silent moment, the world stopped turning. "Ava," Daniel stammered, sitting up, scrambling for the sheet. "This isn't—it's not what it looks like—" The woman—Rachel, the cousin, the one he'd introduced her to at Thanksgiving, the one he'd said was like a sister to him—rolled onto her back and groaned. "For f**k's sake, Danny. Tell her to leave." Ava stepped back. "Ava, wait—" She turned and ran. --- Rain came down in sheets. Ava didn't feel it. She walked, and walked, and walked, past closed shops and dim streetlamps and cars that splashed water onto her shoes. Her hair stuck to her face. Her clothes soaked through. She didn't care. Eighty thousand dollars. Her father would die. Daniel was a liar. Her mother had hit her before breakfast. She had no one. Nothing. At some point, she realized she had stopped walking. There was a bar in front of her—low neon glow, open sign, quiet. Not crowded. Not loud. I shouldn't, she thought. I don't even drink. But she was so tired. And so cold. And so alone. Ava pushed open the door and walked inside. --- The man at the bar was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. Dark hair. Gray eyes. A jaw sharp enough to cut glass. He wore a black suit worth more than her rent. A glass of whiskey rested in front of him, mostly untouched. He didn't look up when she sat down two stools away. She ordered a drink. She didn't even know what. The bartender brought it. She took one sip and winced. "First time?" the man asked, eyes still on his glass. Ava's throat tightened. "Is it that obvious?" "Painfully." She should have been offended. Instead, something in his dry, flat tone loosened the knot in her chest—just a little. "I'm having the worst day of my life," she said quietly. The man finally looked at her. His gray eyes swept her face—her soaked hair, her runny makeup, the red mark still faint on her cheek. "Only the worst so far," he said. Ava let out a broken little laugh. The man watched her. Something flickered in his expression—curiosity, maybe. Or hunger. "What's your name?" he asked. Ava opened her mouth. Then she stopped. She didn't want to be Ava Reyes tonight. She didn't want to be the girl who got hit by her mother or cheated on by her boyfriend or told her father had weeks to live. She wanted to be no one. For just one night. "No names," she said. The man's lips curved—just barely. "No names," he agreed. ---