Destroying the billionaire who loves me

Third POV "Don't call them, Arielle. Please." The voice was a wet, rattling ghost of the man Garrick Lorre used to be. He was slumped against the peeling wallpaper of their studio apartment, one hand clutching a rag that was already blooming with fresh blood. Blood! Fresh blood! Terrifying blood! "But Daddy, you're shaking," six-year-old Arielle whispered. Her small hands hovered over the rotary phone, her eyes wide with a terror she couldn't fully name. "The lady on the TV says the doctor makes the shaking go away." Garrick forced a smile, though it looked more like a grimace of agony. He pointed a trembling finger toward the flickering television screen in the corner. "Just... watch your show, Little Bird. We don’t have the pennies for the siren wagon. I just need a moment to catch my breath. The factory... it was a long shift." "You said that yesterday. And the day before." Arielle took a step toward him, her bare feet sticking to the grime on the linoleum. "You’re always out of breath." "It’s the price of a paycheck, Ari," he wheezed, his chest heaving with a sound like grinding gravel. "Mr. Voss... he says we’re a family at the plant. Families look out for each other." On the screen, the "family" was gold and silver. A news anchor was gushing over the "Voss Family Annual Gala." The camera cut to a man in a tuxedo that shone like vegetable oil on water. Arthur Voss. Beside him stood a woman draped in diamonds that could have bought Arielle’s building ten times over. "They look like royalty, don't they?" Garrick wheezed, his eyes glazed. "My bosses. They’re the ones who build the world, Ari." "If they build the world, why is our heater broken?" Arielle asked. She looked from the screen where Arthur Voss was laughing while handing a sparkling flute of champagne to a guest, to her father. Garrick opened his mouth to answer, but a violent spasm seized his body. He lunged forward, his hands clawing at the air as if trying to catch a spirit. "Daddy!" "Stay... back..." he managed to choke out. He doubled over, a wet, tearing sound echoing in the small room. A spray of blood hit the floor, splatting against the legs of the TV stand. He began to thrash, his boots drumming a frantic, desperate rhythm against the floorboards. "I'm calling! I'm calling now!" Arielle screamed. She scrambled for the phone, her fingers slick with the sweat of panic as she yanked the cord. "No!" Garrick’s hand shot out, surprisingly strong for a dying man, and gripped her wrist. His eyes were bloodshot, bulging with the effort to stay upright. "The bill, Arielle... the debt... they'll take the apartment... they'll take you..." "I don't care! Breathe, Daddy! Just breathe!" She ripped her arm away, the force of it sending her stumbling back. The whole time, Arrielle’s heart kept thumping in her chest. She felt like she was going to explode. Her body shook in fear, but she tried to get herself together. She dialed the three numbers with a shaking finger, her eyes locked on her father. He was falling now, sliding down the wall in slow motion, leaving a thick, dark streak of blood on the wallpaper. On the television, Arthur Voss was making a speech. "Tonight, we celebrate progress!" Voss’s voice boomed from the speakers, full of authority. "We celebrate the hands that make the Voss dream possible!" "My daddy won't breathe!" Arielle screamed into the receiver as a voice answered. "He’s bleeding from his mouth! Help him! Please, help him!" "Address, sweetheart? Give me your address," the operator said, her voice calm and distant. "The factory took his breath!" Arielle shrieked, ignoring the question. "The VIG factory! Tell Mr. Voss to help him!" Garrick’s head hit the floor with a dull thud. His chest gave one final, violent heave, then went still. The rag he had been holding unfurled, revealing a mountain of sodden, black-and-red tissue. "Daddy?" Arielle dropped the phone. It dangled by its cord, the operator’s voice buzzing like a trapped insect. She crawled toward him, her knees hitting the wet patch on the floor. She shook his shoulder, but he felt like a bag of heavy stones. "Wake up. Daddy, the siren is coming. You have to be awake for the siren." She waited. One minute. Two. On the TV, the Voss family was taking a bow. The crowd was cheering. The contrast was a physical blow, the roar of the wealthy audience masking the silence of her father’s final breath. When the paramedics finally burst through the door, they didn't rush. They saw the blood, saw the stillness, and they slowed down. "Clear!" one shouted, but he wasn't holding a defibrillator. He was checking a pulse that wasn't there. "Time of death, 22:14," the other said, pulling a sheet from the gurney. "Wait!" Arielle jumped up, her small fists clenched. "He’s just tired! He said he just needed a moment!" "He’s gone, kid," the paramedic said, not unkindly, but with the weary tone of someone who had seen too many factory deaths in this zip code. ~ The next morning, the apartment felt cavernous. Two social workers stood by the door, their faces tight with a pity that felt like an insult. They were looking through the meager pantry, whispering. "There’s nothing here but crackers and industrial-grade cough suppressant," one muttered. "How did he even walk to work?" "Pure grit," the other replied, snapping a clipboard shut. "He worked at the Voss plant for fifteen years. You’d think they’d have a policy for the stage-four stuff. They didn't even send a representative to clear the locker. I called their HR, they said he was a private contractor. No benefits. No funeral costs." "They don't care about the grease in the gears," the first one sighed. "They won't even cover the cremation. The state will have to handle it. Poor kid is headed to the system." "The state?" Arielle’s voice cracked the quiet. She was standing by the window, clutching a small, battered stuffed owl. "What about the 'family'?" The social workers exchanged a look. "What do you mean, honey?" "Mr. Voss. He said we were family." Arielle pointed a small, trembling finger at the VIG skyscraper visible in the distance, cutting into the sky like a jagged tooth. The social worker knelt, trying to take Arielle’s hand. "That’s just... that's just business talk, Arielle. People like the Vosses... they don't know names. They only know numbers." Arielle pulled her hand away, her dark eyes flashing with a cold, ancient fire. The heat of her grief was rapidly crystallizing into something sharper. "I know their names," Arielle said, her voice eerily calm for a six-year-old. "Arthur. Evelyn. And the boy on the news. Alexander." "Oh, sweetie, don't dwell on that. It was the sickness—" "They took his breath," Arielle interrupted, her voice dropping to a whisper that made the social worker shiver. "They kept the money for the doctor and let him die in the dirt. They watched him cough until he broke, and they just kept dancing." She looked back at the TV, still left on by the landlord. Arthur Voss’s face filled the screen in a rebroadcast of the gala. He looked invincible. "I’m going to take it back," she whispered to the empty room, her eyes reflecting the cold blue light of the screen. "Every breath. Every penny. Every smile." She didn't cry when they led her out of the apartment. She didn't look back at the red stain on the wallpaper. She kept her eyes fixed on the skyscraper, measuring it, as if calculating exactly how much weight it would take to make it crumble. They let her into the car, and let her settle in. "I'm coming for you," she breathed against the glass of the social worker's car. "I'm coming for all of you."