HIS PRINCESS

CHAPTER 6

She turned toward the door, her pulse pounding in her ears.

"Friday at noon," Sebastian called after her. "The offer expires then."

Ariana stormed out of Sebastian's office, the door slamming behind her with a sharp crack. Fiona Blake froze mid-step in the outer office, a stack of files clutched to her chest. Her perfectly contoured cheekbones flushed beneath layers of matte foundation as she caught fragments of the heated exchange.

Sebastian's voice carried through the door, calm as ever. "Fiona. My 3 o'clock files."

Fiona smoothed her designer blouse, the emerald silk straining across augmented curves. She'd spent two hours that morning perfecting the smoky eye look that never earned more than a passing glance from Sebastian. Meanwhile, Ariana's messy bun and paint-stained jeans seemed to hold his attention for hours.

"Right away, President. Harris." Fiona's French-tipped nails dug into the folders as she entered. Sebastian didn't look up from his monitor, his crisp white cuffs stark against mahogany skin.

She slowly placed the files on his desk.

"Will there be anything else?" Her voice dripped with the honeyed tone that worked on every other executive in the building.

Sebastian flipped a page without looking up. "No."

Fiona hesitated. The security feed on his secondary monitor showed Ariana jamming the elevator button, her unadorned face flushed with anger. Even furious, the girl had that natural glow Fiona's monthly facials couldn't replicate.

"Miss Ross—" Fiona began.

"I will handle it." Sebastian's gold pen scratched across a document. "Send in Anthony from the legal department."

Fiona's lipstick smile tightened. She backed out, nearly colliding with a nervous intern balancing three coffee cups. The girl stammered an apology. Fiona didn't bother responding.

Through the slatted blinds, she watched Sebastian finally look up - not at his waiting staff, but at the security feed where Ariana's figure disappeared into the elevator. His expression remained unreadable, but his fingers lingered on the keyboard, zooming the camera in before the doors closed.

Fiona adjusted her diamond tennis bracelet, the one she'd bought herself last birthday. The stones felt cold against her skin. She returned to her desk, the click of her heels unnecessarily loud on the marble floor. Around her, assistants kept their heads down, fingers flying across keyboards. No one dared comment on the boss's unusual interest in some struggling artist.

The office ticked on, every employee hyper-aware of the man behind the glass door who controlled their futures with the same detached cruelly he'd just shown Ariana Ross. Fiona opened her compact, reapplying powder to hide the angry flush creeping up her neck. The reflection showed crow's feet no amount of concealer could fully mask. She snapped the mirror shut.

Outside, the city bustled on, oblivious. Ariana walked blindly for blocks before hailing a cab, Sebastian Harris' calm voice replaying in her mind—available in my bed when I desire. The absurdity of it made her skin crawl, yet the numbers added up with terrifying clarity: five years of her body in exchange for her family's survival.

As the cab merged into traffic, Ariana pressed her forehead to the cool window. Some decisions couldn't be unmade. Some costs couldn't be calculated until after they'd been paid.

The cab dropped Ariana outside her apartment building. She climbed the stairs slowly, each step heavier than the last. Inside, she tossed her keys on the kitchen counter and filled a glass with tap water, drinking it in slow, measured sips.

She pulled out her phone and saw three missed calls from Kiara. Ignoring them, she opened her laptop instead and pulled up her grandfather's medical records. The numbers glared back at her—1.5 million just to get on the transplant list, another 300k for post-op care. Her last gallery payment sat in her bank account: $2,347.

Ariana closed the laptop and walked to her small balcony. The evening air carried the scent of rain.

She checked the time. Martin Cole would still be at his office, she thought. Her finger hovered over his contact before she locked her phone. This wasn't his fight.

The refrigerator hummed as she opened it, staring at the nearly empty shelves. She took out leftover takeout and ate standing at the counter, barely tasting the cold noodles.

Her sketchbook lay open on the coffee table. The mural designs for Sebastian Harris's building stared back at her—bold strokes, vibrant colors. She flipped the cover closed.

About an hour later, her phone buzzed. A text from the hospital: "Mr. Ross's condition is stable tonight. Next of kin may visit until daybreak."

Ariana didn't reply. She showered, changed into sleep clothes, and sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the wall where a crack ran from ceiling to floor.

She turned off the light and lay in the dark trying her best to invoke sleep which was miles away.

The alarm buzzed loudly in the quiet room. Ariana slapped it off and sat up, rubbing her eyes. She checked her phone—no new messages. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator.

She made coffee, the bitter aroma filling the small kitchen. While it brewed, she took a quick shower, the hot water doing little to ease the tension in her shoulders. Dressed in clean jeans and a gray sweater, she drank her coffee standing by the window, watching people hurry to work below.

After having breakfast, she called the hospital. A nurse confirmed her grandfather had slept through the night with no complications. Ariana thanked her and hung up.

She scrolled through her contacts, pausing at Kiara's name. Instead of calling, she sent a quick text: "Grandpa's okay. Focus on your exams." The reply came instantly: "Call me when you're disposed. I'm really worried."

Ariana put her phone away and gathered her sketchbook and pencils into her bag. The art supply store opened at 8. She needed more charcoal for the mural designs, regardless of what decision she made about Sebastian Harris's offer.

On the bus downtown, she stared at the passing buildings without really seeing them. Her knee bounced slightly, the only outward sign of her racing thoughts. When the bus reached her stop, she got off and walked the remaining three blocks to the art store.

The bell jingled as she entered. The clerk nodded in recognition. "More charcoal, Miss Ariana?"

She managed a small smile. "The soft kind. Two packs."

While the clerk rang up her purchase, Ariana's phone buzzed. An unknown number. She let it go to voicemail.

Outside, she checked the message. A man's voice: "Miss Ross, this is Dr. Scott's office manager. We'd like to schedule a consultation regarding your grandfather's case."

Ariana stood frozen on the sidewalk after the call ended, the art store's bell jingling behind her as another customer exited. She played the voicemail again, listening carefully to the unfamiliar voice claiming to be from Dr. Scott's office.

The hairs on her neck stood up. No one knew Dr. Scott's location - not the hospital staff, not even the Director of Mercy General had been able to tell her. Yet this call came through immediately after her meeting with Sebastian Harris.

She dialed Mercy General's main line. "Tenth floor surgical offices, please," she told the operator.

A pause. "I'm sorry, we don't have surgical offices on the tenth floor. That's administrative."

Ariana's grip tightened on her phone. "Could you check if Dr. Chandler Scott has any appointments scheduled there tomorrow?"

Another pause. "No doctor by that name is affiliated with our hospital, ma'am."

The art supplies bag slipped from her shoulder as she ended the call. She bent to pick it up, her movements slow and a bit stiff.

At the bus stop, she sat on the bench and opened her sketchbook to the page where she'd written the appointment details. With careful strokes, she crossed out "Mercy General" and wrote "President Harris" beneath it.

The bus arrived with a hiss of brakes. Ariana boarded, swiping her pass mechanically. As the doors closed behind her, she pulled out her phone and stared at Sebastian Harris's last text about Friday's deadline.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard before typing a simple reply: "Understood." She sent it, then turned off her phone completely.

The bus rumbled through downtown, passing Sebastian Harris's gleaming office tower. Ariana didn't look up from her sketchbook, where she'd begun shading a new drawing - a bird in a gilded cage, its door slightly ajar.

The bus ride home took twenty-three minutes. Ariana counted each stop, her sketchbook closed on her lap. When she reached her apartment, she methodically put away the art supplies, placing the new charcoal sticks neatly beside the old ones in her drawer.

She checked the time—It was few minutes before noon. Kiara would be in class now. Ariana made a peanut butter sandwich and ate it standing at the kitchen counter, washing it down with tap water. The faucet dripped slightly no matter how tightly she turned the knob.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Another unknown number. She let it ring out.

At noon, she took the subway to the hospital. The elevator smelled of antiseptic and cafeteria food. Her grandfather was awake when she entered, struggling to sit up. She adjusted his pillows without speaking.

"You look weary, talk to grandpa, what's bothering you?" he asked, his voice raspy.

She handed him the cup of water from his bedside table. "Am fine, you just need to get better, okay?"

Grandpa Lachlan gave a weak smile in response.

They sat in silence for a while before the cardiologist came in for rounds. Ariana stepped out to give them privacy, leaning against the wall in the hallway. A nurse walked by pushing a cart of medications, the wheels squeaking slightly.

When the doctor left, she returned to her grandfather's bedside. His breathing seemed shallower than yesterday. She pretended not to notice.

As evening approached, hospital security announced visiting hours were ending. Ariana kissed her grandfather's forehead and promised to return tomorrow. The lie tasted bitter.

Back outside, the sun had disappeared behind clouds. She walked three blocks to the library instead of heading home, taking a seat at one of the public computers. She searched for Chandler Scott—only a single medical journal article and a five-year-old newspaper mention of a groundbreaking surgery appeared.

The library closed at 6 PM. On her way out, she dropped a quarter in the homeless man's cup by the door. His quiet "God bless" followed her down the steps.

Her apartment was dark when she returned. She turned on one lamp and sat at her small kitchen table, staring at the sketch of the caged bird. With a fresh pencil, she added delicate bars across the open door.

The phone rang. Sebastian's name glaring at her. She let it ring few more times before answering.

"Tomorrow's appointment has been moved to 9 PM," he said without greeting. "My driver will pick you up at 8:30."

She tapped her pencil lightly against the sketchbook. "Where?"

"A private facility. Don't keep me waiting." The line went dead.

Ariana set down the phone and closed the sketchbook. She showered, brushed her teeth, and set her alarm for the next morning. Before calling it a night.