$50
1040 Words
A night of tumultuous disarray.
Annie awakens at dawn, her body aching profoundly, her heart silently hurling a million curses upon Lucian.
That wretch—truly a beast, a savage beast!
Her slight frame had been ensnared in his unrelenting embrace; it took Herculean effort to extricate herself. As the sky begins to lighten, she hastens to don her garments, wincing at the sharp pang below. Another litany of silent curses escapes her as she dresses. Rifling through her pockets, she finds a mere $50.
$50 for fifty million in underworld currency—sufficient, surely?
No matter. He reaped the feast and left her the loss; if it falls short, let him cover it.
The expenditure of $50 stings her deeply—paying for pain? Her wits must have drowned.
In Annie’s reckoning, Lucian isn’t worth $50—a paltry sum indeed. Were he privy to this, he’d likely choke on his own blood. Thus mollified, she places the money on the table, tearing a scrap of paper to pen a few dainty words: “Beast, here’s your fee for services rendered. Farewell!”
With furtive steps, Annie slips from the room, fleeing as though pursued.
Homeward she strides, intent on settling scores with Drusilla. Drugging her? Does that harpy court death?
Lest he demand fifty million in earnest—selling a hundred of her wouldn’t fetch such a sum.
Lucian stirs as daylight creeps in, the room aglow. Languidly embracing the pillow, he pauses, sensing an absence. His eyes snap open to find himself alone. Those dark orbs narrow, his beguiling features suffused with a perilous hue—languorous yet lethal in the morning light.
That damnable girl.
She dared to escape?
Flee as she might, none elude Lucian’s grasp. This wicked minx—her taste lingers pleasantly.
A flicker of desire stirs within him; he savors the marrow and craves more.
His gaze catches the $50 on the table, its vivid pink glaringly conspicuous. A foreboding chill seizes him, his eye twitching violently. Pray it isn’t as he fears.
Alas, he underestimates Annie’s devilish nature.
The sight of her delicate script on the white scrap darkens his gaze, a Yama-like murderous aura radiating from him.
Beast?
$50?
Payment for his body?
Splendid. Utterly splendid!
Seizing the note, he crumples it into a ball, a twisted smile curling his lips.
The dilapidated slums of City A.
Ramshackle houses crumble in decay, streets reek with filth and stench, and throngs of people jostle in cramped misery—an enclave radiating the bitter toil of the city’s underbelly. Towering edifices loom on all sides, yet this lone stretch lies in abject ruin.
Annie, dragging a modest suitcase, emerges from the crowded thoroughfare.
“Annie, live well in England with your aunt. Don’t fret over me—study diligently. I’ve failed you,” sobs Father Cheng, his eyes swollen and red from a night of weeping. Since marrying Drusilla’s mother, guilt toward Annie has gnawed at him ceaselessly. “I’m a useless man, a lifetime of mediocrity, unable to provide for you. Thank heavens your aunt is taking you abroad, sparing you my hardships. At least I can face your mother with some semblance of peace.”
“Father, don’t speak so,” Annie says, enveloping him in an embrace. “I’m only going to England—I’ll return. Rest easy, Father. Someday, Annie will come back and ensure your comfort.”
“Brother-in-law, fear not. I’ll care for Annie as my own,” Gu Meiling assures with tender warmth.
“Father, Drusilla’s hands are far from clean out there—she owes a fortune. Don’t entangle yourself in her mess. Live your days in peace. She’s grown; let her fend for herself. You owe her nothing—remember that,” Annie cautions, her gravest concern laid bare.
Father Cheng nods solemnly.
That day, upon her return, Annie had unleashed her fury upon Drusilla. Beneath her pristine visage burns a fiery spirit. She pummeled Drusilla until every sordid detail spilled forth—the unrelenting scheme to sell her to an underground auction. Were it not for her aunt’s timely rescue to England for studies, escape would have been impossible. Yet her heart aches for her father’s fate.
The taxi rumbles to life. Gazing at her father’s stooped silhouette, Annie’s tears fall freely.
Father, await my return. I vow to bring you ease.
At a traffic light, a silver sports car idles. Lucian’s temper has soured of late; with his imminent return to America looming, the whereabouts of that vexing girl elude him still.
That wretched minx—once he seizes her, he’ll flay her alive. None have dared trifle with Lucian so. Flee to the ends of the earth, and he’ll hunt her down, exacting retribution.
Those eyes, brimming with radiant charm—so captivating!
Her essence, too, ensnares him—an addiction he cannot shake.
Wicked girl!
That night was not their first encounter. By the seaside, he’d glimpsed her once before, enthralled utterly. Yet in the bar, she humiliated him. He’ll not let it pass.
Lucian refuses to let their tale end thus. A voice within clamors incessantly: It’s her, it’s her. This singular sensation sets his heart aflutter, and he welcomes it.
His slender eyes tilt upward, then freeze. That minx?
In the taxi, Annie gazes absently at the talisman her father bestowed, oblivious to Lucian’s stare.
The light shifts, and the vehicles surge forth amid peak-hour throngs. Lucian trails closely, dreading he might lose her.
Such driving courts peril.
At a sharp bend on the highway, the taxi veers. In his haste, Lucian recklessly cuts ahead. Tragedy strikes—a truck barrels forth, smashing into his car. Man and machine tumble in a violent cascade…
Wicked girl, don’t leave…
Before darkness claims him, a single, fervent thought consumes Lucian.
Within the taxi, Annie’s heart lurches, a sudden pang piercing her. She turns, bewildered. Who calls to her?
“There’s been an accident on the highway,” the driver remarks.
Unease grips Annie, lingering long before subsiding.
As an ambulance races Lucian to the hospital, Annie boards her flight to England.
The maiden, beaming with luminous joy, cries out, “Great motherland, await my return to honor you!”
- Writer
