005
1752 Words
Mr. Vane clears his throat, the sound abrasive in the sudden silence of the room. He looks between Tristan and me, sweat beading on his forehead. "I... I have an urgent call to make. Tristan, ensure we settle this discreetly. I’ll leave you to it."
He doesn't wait for a response. He scurries out the door, the heavy mahogany clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone with the predator by the window.
The air shifts instantly, heavy with a scent of expensive sandalwood and something darker, like ozone before a storm. I straighten my spine, forcing my shoulders back, refusing to let him see me tremble.
My voice trembling despite my best effort to steady it. "I don’t owe you anything."
Tristan turns slowly, the movement fluid and dangerous. His gaze locks onto mine, cold and calculating, stripping away my defenses layer by layer. He smirks, a curve of his lips that promises nothing good, and steps closer. The space between us shrinks until his presence suffocates me, a wall of pure, masculine arrogance.
"Do you know how much that shirt cost, Anastasia?" he taunts, his voice a low purr that vibrates in my chest. He reaches out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. The touch is possessive, lingering, making my skin prickle with unwanted heat.
"I’ll pay for it," I hiss, jerking my head away. "Every cent."
He laughs, a dark, rich sound that mocks my very existence. "With your salary? Or the money you’re scrambling for your father’s chemo?"
My blood runs cold. The room tilts. "How... how do you know that?"
He ignores the question, stepping closer until his chest brushes against mine. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, hard and unyielding. "I know everything about you, little girl. I know you’re drowning. I know you’re desperate."
"I’m not desperate," I lie, my breath hitching.
"I’m offering you a solution," he purrs, his voice dripping with malice and something else—something that makes my thighs clench involuntarily. "One night. Five hundred thousand dollars. Just you, me, and whatever I want to do to that tight little body of yours."
I recoil as if he’s slapped me, disgust warring with a sudden, terrifying spike of arousal. "No amount of money will make me bend to you. You think you can buy me?"
His grip tightens on my wrist, painful and iron-clad, pulling me flush against him. I gasp, my hands flattening against his chest to push him away, but he’s immovable, a statue carved from muscle and greed. His breath is hot on my face, smelling of mint and whiskey.
"Your father’s dying, Anastasia," he sneers, his eyes boring into mine, seeing every weakness, every fear. "The treatments aren't working. You need the best care, and you can’t afford it. Think about it. One night of being my w***e, and your father lives."
"You bastard," I spit, my vision blurring with tears of rage. "Don't talk about him."
I lunge, swinging my free hand with every ounce of strength I have to slap that smug look off his face. But he’s faster. He catches my hand mid-air, his grip crushing my fingers. He twists my arm behind my back, forcing me to arch into him, my breasts crushed against his solid torso.
"I love that fire," he whispers, his lips grazing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear. "But you’ll learn to control it."
"Get off me! You disgust me!" I struggle, kicking at his shins, but he only holds me tighter, enjoying my futile attempts to escape.
"Call me," he murmurs, pressing a stiff, cream-colored card into my palm before releasing me so suddenly I stumble back. I catch myself on the edge of Vane’s desk, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "I’m sure you’ll change your mind very soon."
He straightens his jacket, immaculate and calm, while I stand there disheveled and shaking. "Over my dead body," I breathe, clutching the card like it’s a venomous insect.
He just smiles, that knowing, arrogant smirk, and turns back to the window.
I scramble for the door, my lungs burning. I hurry down the hallway, my vision swimming, until I spot a metal trash bin near the elevators. I shove the card deep into the bin and crumpled napkins, wiping my hand on my skirt as if touching it has contaminated me.
*************************
Lila is waiting by the staff lockers, her eyes wide with panic. She grabs my arms the moment she sees me. "Ana? What happened? Are you okay?"
I force a smile, my face aching. "It’s fine. I apologized. He... he accepted it."
Lila lets out a breath she’d been holding, her shoulders slumping. "Thank god. I was so worried. Are you sure you’re okay? You look pale."
"Just tired," I lie, grabbing my bag. "Let's just go home."
The next morning, the relentless ringing of my phone drags me out of a nightmare. I groan, burying my face in my pillow. My small bed creaks as I roll over, the morning light filtering through the thin curtains mocking my mood. I worked a double shift yesterday, and the tips in my jar are barely enough to cover the electric bill, let alone the mounting hospital costs. I even thought about selling my bike—the only thing I have left of value—but I know it won't be enough.
My hand fumbles on the nightstand until I grasp the buzzing device. I don't check the ID, just swipe to answer, my voice thick with sleep. "Hello?"
"Miss Volkova? This is City general Hospital."
My heart stops. The sleep vanishes instantly, replaced by a cold dread that squeezes my stomach. "Yes? Is it... What....... Hi?"
"He’s awake," the nurse says, her voice hurried but kind. "He woke up about ten minutes ago and he’s been asking for you. Miss Volkova."
A sob tears from my throat before I can stop it. "I’m coming. I’m leaving right now."
********************
The drive to the hospital is a blur of tears and white-knuckled gripping of the handlebars. I practically run through the corridors, my sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, until I reach the door of his private ward. I stop, my hand hovering over the handle. I breathe in and out, trying to compose myself, trying to scrub the tears from my face. It’s been weeks since I last saw him conscious.
I push the door open.
The room is quiet, the beeping of the monitors rhythmic and steady. He looks frail, thinner than the last time I saw him, but his eyes are open. They land on me, and a bright, toothless smile spreads across his face.
"My little star," he whispers, his voice raspy but joyful.
"You’re here," he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
I rush to the bedside, collapsing into the chair and taking his papery-thin hand in mine. "I’m here, Papa. I’m right here."
"I missed you," he whispers, squeezing my fingers weakly. "My beautiful girl."
I break. The dam shatters. I sob into his blanket, my shoulders shaking, the stress of the last few weeks pouring out of me. "I missed you too. I was so scared."
He chuckles, a dry, rattling sound, and reaches out to wipe my tears with his thumb. "Shh, now. No tears for me. I’m tough, remember?"
I laugh through the tears, looking up at him. "You’re asking about my well-being when you’re the one in the hospital bed?"
"I’m fine," he insists, though the dark circles under his eyes tell a different story. "Tell me. What have you been doing? Working hard?"
"Always," I say, forcing a brighter tone. "Just... saving up. For a vacation. For us."
He laughs again, a genuine sound of happiness. "A vacation? That sounds wonderful. Maybe we could go to the coast again. Like when you were little."
"I'd like that."
His smile slowly fades. "Anna... stop working so hard."
I blink. "What?"
"You've given up so much because of me. You're always working, always worrying." He gently squeezes my hand. "I don't want you wasting your life trying to save mine."
"Dad..."
"I'm serious." He sighs. "One day, this illness will take me. That's something we can't change."
My heart clenches. "Don't say that."
"It's the truth." His voice is calm. "When I'm gone, I want you to live. Fall in love. Travel. Be happy. Promise me you won't keep sacrificing everything for me."
I shake my head, tears spilling over.
"No. I won't promise that."
"Anna..."
"I won't give up on you." I grip his hand tighter. "You never gave up on me, so don't ask me to give up on you. You're my father, and I'll keep fighting for you for as long as you're here."
His eyes glisten with tears as a faint smile crosses his lips.
"I really did raise a stubborn daughter."
A watery laugh escapes me. "I learned from the best."
His laugh turns into a cough. It starts small, a tickle in his throat, but then it deepens, becoming wet and violent. He hacks, his body convulsing on the bed.
"Papa?" I panic, standing up.
He tries to wave me off, turning his head away, but when he pulls the handkerchief away from his mouth, it’s stained bright red.
My stomach drops. "Papa!"
The cough doesn't stop. It racks his body, his gasps for air turning into a wheeze. I slam my hand onto the emergency button, my fingers trembling. "Help! I need help!"
The door bursts open. A team of nurses and a doctor rush in, pushing me aside. "Miss, you need to step back," a nurse says firmly, guiding me toward the door.
"No, wait—"
"Please, wait outside."
The door clicks shut, leaving me in the hallway. I press my hands against the cold glass, watching through the window. They crowd around his bed, tubes and needles flashing, their movements a frantic dance.
I slide down the wall, landing hard on the floor. The tears are silent now, streaming down my face as I watch them fight to stabilize the man who raised me.
Five hundred thousand dollars.
Tristan’s voice echoes in my mind, insidious and sweet. Your father’s dying. Think about it.
I bury my face in my hands, the weight of his offer crushing me, suffocating me, tempting me with a darkness I know I can’t escape.
- Writer
