FORBIDDEN: CRAVING DADDY TOUCH

002

The air in the waiting room tastes like stale coffee and antiseptic, a flavor that coats the back of my throat no matter how many times I swallow. I sit on one of the vinyl chairs, my leg bouncing rhythmically, the rubber sole of sneaker squeaking against the linoleum floor. I clutch my phone in my hand, knuckles white, staring at the double doors that lead to the ICU. Please, I repeat the word in my head like a mantra, a desperate prayer to a God I haven’t spoken to in years. Please don’t let him die. Not today.

The door swings open, and a nurse in blue scrubs steps out, holding a clipboard. "Anastasia Volkova?" she calls.

I shoot up from the chair so fast my head spins. "Yes. Is he—?"

"Dr. Lawrence will see you now," she says, her face neutral, giving nothing away.

She leads me down a corridor that is too bright and too quiet. I follow her into a small consultation room where Dr. Lawrence is already waiting. He’s an older man with silver hair and a face that looks like it’s seen too much tragedy. He stands as I enter, offering a hand that feels dry and papery against mine.

"Miss Volkova," he says, his voice grave, the kind of tone that delivers bad news for a living. "Please, sit down."

I sink into the chair opposite him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Is my dad okay? Is he...?"

Dr. Lawrence sighs, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. "We had a scare about an hour ago. His heart rate spiked, and his oxygen saturation dropped critically low. We had to intervene aggressively."

The room tilts. I grip the arms of the chair to keep from sliding off. "But... is he stable now?"

"For the moment," Lawrence says, replacing his glasses. "But the chemotherapy regimen he’s on isn’t working the way we hoped. The cancer is resisting. We need to switch to a different protocol. It’s more targeted, but it’s... significantly more expensive."

" We are talking about $150,000" My stomach drop to my knees. It’s more than what I make in a year.

"I... I don't..." I stammer, the words tangling on my tongue. My vision blurs, hot tears pricking the corners of my eyes, but I force them back. I can't break down here. Not in front of him. "How... how long do I have to decide?"

"We need to start immediately, Miss Volkova. Every hour counts."

He stands up, signaling the end of the consultation, but I can barely move. I shake his hand mechanically, my body numb, and walk out of the office. I don't remember walking down the hall, but I’m standing in front of the observation window of the ICU.

My father is there.

He looks so small. The man who used to carry me on his shoulders is now a withered figure swallowed by white sheets. Tubes snake out from his arms and nose, connecting him to the chorus of beeping machines that monitor his fragile existence. His chest rises and falls, but it’s the work of the ventilator, not his own strength.

I press my forehead against the cold glass. The tears I’ve been holding back finally break free, hot tracks running down my cheeks. I remember him healthy, laughing in the kitchen, burning dinner because he was trying too hard after Mom left us. He raised me alone, working double shifts, never complaining, just loving me with a fierce, unconditional devotion that I never thought I’d have to live without.

No, I think, the word hardening into a jagged stone in my gut. I can't let him die like this. I won't.

I wipe my face with the sleeve of my hoodie, scrubbing away the evidence of my weakness. I turn away from the glass and walk toward the exit, my legs moving with a new, desperate purpose. I push through the hospital doors and the cool evening air hits my face, shocking my lungs.

I pull out my phone and dial Lila. She picks up on the second ring.

"Ana? Oh my god, what happened? Is it your dad?" Her voice is high, tight with panic.

"I'll explain later," I say, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears—hard, clipped. "Is he still there?"

"Who?" Lila asks, confused. "The hospital?"

"No. The man. The one looking for a... a night stand. The one with the money."

There’s a pause on the line. "Yeah, yeah, he’s still here. He’s in the VIP section. Why? What are you thinking?"

"Just tell me he's there," I say, straddling my bike parked at the rack. My hands are shaking as I grip the handlebars.

"Ana, you're scaring me. What about your dad?"

"I'm coming back. Don't let him leave."

I hang up before she can ask anything else. I kick the pedal and the bike lurches forward. I ride through the city streets, the wind whipping my hair against my face, stinging my eyes. The lights blur, but I don't slow down. Every mile brings me closer to the only option I have left.

I arrive at the club and chain my bike to the fence out back. I slip in through the employee entrance, the heavy bass thumping in my chest before I even hear it clearly. I head straight to the dressing room, stripping off my casual clothes and pulling on my work uniform—the tight, black bodysuit that leaves little to the imagination. I pull the mask over my face, the one that covers my nose and eyes, leaving only my mouth visible. It’s a shield. It makes me someone else.

I grab a tray of glasses from the bar, the crystal clinking softly, and head out onto the floor. The air is thick with the smell of expensive cologne, sweat, and spilled liquor. Lila spots me immediately from across the room and rushes over, her eyes wide.

"Ana!" She grabs my arm, pulling me into a tight hug. "I was so worried. What did the doctor say?"

I stiffen in her arms, the tray of drinks wobbling. "Later, Lila. I can't talk about it now."

She pulls back, searching my eyes. "You're really going to do it? You're going to talk to him?"

Earlier, she had suggested it—jokingly, I thought. Just go ask him. He’s loaded. He’s looking for a good time. Maybe he’ll pay for your silence or your company. I had laughed it off, disgusted. But now, the disgust is buried under a mountain of terror.

"What you told me to do earlier?" I ask, my voice muffled by the mask. "Beg?"

Lila bites her lip, looking conflicted. "Yeah, but... I didn't think you'd actually listen. I thought you'd be offended."

"Where is he?"

Lila points toward the velvet rope at the far end of the club. "VIP booth. Drinking scotch."

I look over. Even through the crowd, I can see him. He radiates arrogance, leaning back with his arm draped along the booth, watching the dancers like a king surveying his court.

"Okay," I whisper. "Wish me luck."

"Ana," Lila starts, reaching out, but I’m already walking away.

I move through the crowd, the tray steady in my hands, but my stomach is churning. I feel irritated, a hot prickly sensation under my skin. I hate this. I hate that I have to do this. But the image of my father in that bed, the tubes keeping him alive, flashes in my mind. I would do anything. I would get on my knees and crawl if I had to.

I approach the velvet rope. Marcus, the bouncer, steps in front of me, folding his massive arms over his chest. He blocks the path, a wall of muscle.

"Whoa, where do you think you're going, sweetheart?" he asks, his eyes raking over my outfit. "This is VIP service only."

"I have a delivery for the man in the corner," I say, keeping my voice flat.

Marcus grins, leaning down close enough that I can smell the mint gum he’s chewing. "You sure that's all you're delivering? You look like you're trouble."

"Move, Marcus. I'm not playing games."

He chuckles, a low rumble, but he unclips the rope and gives me a wink. "Go get 'em, tiger. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

I slip past him, the rope falling back into place behind me. The noise of the club fades slightly here, the VIP section more secluded, more dangerous. I take a breath, the air filtering through the mask, and look at the man.

The coldness in his eyes. He turns his head, sensing my approach, and his gaze locks onto me. There is no turning back now. The tension in the air snaps tight, a bowstring pulled to the breaking point, and I walk straight into the kill zone.