Bought by the Devil’s Mercy

Chapter2

Abigail's Pov

The Threat Behind the Smile

I ran to the hospital before my shift even ended.

I did not remember leaving the café.

I did not remember crossing the street.

I did not remember the subway ride, the people, the noise, the station, the stairs.

I only remembered the card in my hand and my mother.

By the time I got to Saint Mary’s, my chest hurt from breathing too hard. The automatic doors opened and the cold smell of antiseptic and drugs hospital smell hit me at once.

The stench from sick people followed suit.

I hated that smell. I hated that it had become the smell of my life.

I rushed to the front desk. “Room 314. My mother. Is she okay?”

The nurse barely looked up. “ It's not yet visiting hours—”

“My mother is in room 314!” I screamed.

She finally glanced at the screen. “Mrs. Lena Sweden is stable.”

Stable.

That word had become another lie I lived on.

Stable meant not dead yet.

I walked fast toward her room, my shoes making small sharp sounds against the floor. Every step felt wrong. Every second stretched into enternity.

When I pushed the door open, she was sleeping.

Her face looked pale against the pillow. Her mouth was slightly open. There was a line in her forehead even in sleep, like pain had become part of her face.

I stood there, gripping the doorknob, and the anger I had been holding back broke inside me.

That man knew.

Michael knew where she was.

He knew her condition.

He knew enough to threaten me with a voice so calm it made my skin crawl.

I moved to the bed and sat down.

My mother stirred a little.

“Abigail?” she whispered, her voice carrying her last ounce of strength.

“I’m here.”

Her eyes opened slowly. “You should be at work.”

“I came to see you.”

A faint smile touched her lips. “Did you eat?”

I almost laughed.

Even now.

Even in a situation like this, that was the first thing she asked.

“Yes,” I lied.

She studied my face too long.

“You’re upset.”

“No.”

“Abigail.”

I looked down at my hands.

She knew me too well enough to make lying feel useless.

“I met someone today,” I said.

Her fingers tensed against the blanket.

It was a tiny movement, but I saw it.

My heart paused instantly.

“Who?” she asked.

“A man named Michael Reid.”

Color drained from her face instantly.

My body went cold.

“You know that name?” I asked, my voice low.

She turned away too fast. “No.”

That one word told me more than any confession could.

I stood up, my heart beast fast.

“Don’t lie to me, Mum” I said, the sofness of my voice betraying the anger rising inu chest.

“I’m not lying.”

“You are.”

“Aby..—” she called

“He said my father borrowed money.” The words rushed out now, bitter and fast. “He said you were the guarantor. He said our address was left with them. He said….”

“Stop.”

Her voice was barely louder than a breath, but I stopped.

My mother never said that word sharply.

Never.

I stared at her. She was trembling now, not from illness this time but from fear.

Fear of whatever thing I had no idea about.

And suddenly, for the first time in my life, I understood something terrible.

My mother had known this could come.

“How much do you know?” I asked, tears dropping down my eyes.

Tears filled her eyes as she struggled to sit straight.

That made me angry, not because she was crying.

But because I was tired of being the only one holding up the world while other people cried over pieces of truth.

“Mama.”

She shut her eyes. “I prayed he would never find us.”

“He?” I asked.

“Henry.”

The name dropped between us like broken glass.

So it was true.

He existed.

Not just as a stain in my life,not just as a rumor, but a real man.

A real coward.

“What did he do?” I asked.

She shook her head weakly.

“Don't worry.”

“No.” I blurted.

I stepped back from the bed. “Men came to my workplace today and told me you could die because of something he did, and you want me to leave it?”

Her eyes pleaded with me. “You don’t understand those people.”

“Then make me understand.”

The machine beside her bed beeped steadily, like it had no idea the atmosphere in room had changed.

“Henry was never a good man.” she whispered finally after few seconds of struggling with her words.

I let out a short, harsh laugh. “I figured that out.”

“When I met him, I was young and stupid.” She started.

“ I thought being chosen by a man like that meant I was special.” Her voice broke. “I didn’t know what he really did.”

“And what did he do?”

She looked at me.

For a moment, I thought she would tell me everything.

Instead she said,

“He did enough to ruin lives forever.”

I felt the urgent need to scream out loud but I quickly swallowed it.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I can give for now.” she insisted.

“Why?”

“Because if you know too much, you’ll become part of it.”

I stared at her. “I already am.”

She turned her face away and cried silently.

My own throat burned.

I sat back down because anger was useless when the person across from you looked like a gust of wind could take them away.

“Did he know about me?” I asked more quietly.

My mother did not answer.

I asked again. “Did he know I existed?”

After a long silence, she nodded once.

That hurt more than I was ready for.

I looked at the floor because suddenly I could not let her see my face.

“What did he tell them?” I asked.

“Why would he borrow money with your name?”

“I don’t know.” she said weakly.

“He had…” a knock came at the door, cutting her speech off.

I wiped my face quickly and stood up.

A doctor dressed in a white coat entered with a file in his hand.

“Miss Sweden.”

“Yes?”

“We need to discuss your mother’s treatment plan.”

I hated this sentence.

I hated the careful, professional pity voice of the hospital’s professionals.

He led me outside the room, and I knew even before he spoke that money was about to become another knife in my throat.

“We’ve adjusted her medications twice this week,” he said

“Her response has been limited.”

My mouth went dry. “What does that mean?”

“It means we need to move faster.”

“With what?”

He opened the file. “This is a specialized treatment protocol. It may improve her condition significantly.”

“May?”

“Yes.”

“How much?” I asked, my heart beating enough.

He hesitated.

That was answer enough.

“How much?” I repeated.

“A hundred million dollars.”

The number hit me so hard I actually laughed.

He frowned.

I couldn’t help it.

It was not a laugh people made when they were happy. It was the kind they made when they stood on the edge of disaster and realized the fall was already happening.

“That’s impossible,” I said.

“I’m sorry.” he said and walked out.

Sorry was one word I had always heard all my life.

Everyone was sorry but there are lot of things sorry couldn't do.

Sorry did not lower the bill.

Sorry did not buy medicine.

Sorry did not keep oxygen in my mother’s lungs.

I nodded because if I said anything else, I might collapse.

When the doctor walked away, I leaned against the wall and shut my eyes and the events from today keot ringing in my head.

“One hundred million.”

Hospital bills.

A father I had never met.

Men in suits.

A mother afraid of ghosts from the past.

And a card still burning in my pocket.

I took it out and stared at it again.

“Michael Reid.

Call first.

Or your mother pays.” The words read.

My hand shook.

I should have torn it in half or thrown it away.

But poor people did not always get to choose dignity first.

Sometimes survival came uglier than that.

I dialed the number on the card.

It rang once, then twice, then his voice came on, calm as ever.

“Hello”

I swallowed hard, almost choking on my own saliva.

“This is Abigail.”

“I know.” he replied.

Of course he did.

“What do you want from me?” I stammered.

There was a short pause and then his voice came through.

“Come, let's talk.”

“Where?” my voice came out aggressive and defiant.

“I’ll send a car.” he replied softly

“I’m not getting into a stranger’s car.” I retorted.

“You will if you want your mother alive.”

I gripped the phone so hard my fingers hurt.

“You keep threatening her.” I yelled.

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“No. You’re enjoying this.” I blurted.

His voice cooled. “If I enjoyed it, Miss Sweden, you would already be crying harder than you are now.”

I froze.

He had known from my breathing, from the silence, from the way my voice cracked and I hated it.

I hated that he heard it.

I hated even more that I could not hide it.

I hated him.

“Tonight,” he said.

“Seven o’clock.”

“I have work.”

“You don’t anymore.” his voice was cold, in a way it made my heart skip.

My eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

“It means Jerry’s Café won’t need you tonight.”

Fear climbed up my spine.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing permanent, yet” he said and then the line went dead.

I stared at the phone and the first thing my instincts screamed at me to run.

Without thinking twice, I ran atraight back to Jerry’s cafe.

And when I got there, Tessa was already outside, waiting for me with a face gone white.

“They shut the place down,” she whispered.

My blood turned cold.

“Who?”

She looked at me like I already knew the answer.

And suddenly I understood.

This was not a warning anymore.

It was the beginning.