His Love Was My Hell

The air conditioning in the guestroom was blasting cold, the chill pricking her skin like needles. Maren couldn't help but shiver. Maybe it was because she barely slept last night, or maybe it was just the freezing cold that made her lips turn a pale, almost sickly shade. Her sharp, contrasting black-and-white eyes stared blankly at the crystal coffee table in front of her, its reflection showing her disheveled image—bloodshot eyes that seemed as lost as a deer cornered on the edge of a cliff. Exhaustion had sunk her into a hollow pit, and all that remained was a sense of hopelessness. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, a sudden cold rain began to pour. Large raindrops smashed against the glass with a sharp splatter, breaking into tiny sprays. Maren turned her head, staring blankly at the grey, overcast sky. This is the twenty-eighth floor, so high up it felt like she could almost reach out and touch the heavy clouds hanging low in the sky. The dark, leaden clouds weighed down on her, threatening to c***k open at any moment and rain down on her. Everything felt dark and suffocating. Maren thought to herself that she might never forget this day. October 25th—her twenty-first birthday. It should have been a day to celebrate. Today marked not only her birthday, but also the anniversary of when she met Sofia. Seven years ago, on this very day, fourteen-year-old Maren had met another fourteen-year-old girl at a rundown welfare orphanage in Brooklyn—Sofia. It felt like fate had been sitting up in the clouds, smiling down mysteriously, as if everything had been carefully planned. Sofia didn't know her own birthday. She had been abandoned at the orphanage right after she was born. So, she decided to make Maren's birthday her own. This morning, the bakery in Queens had just opened. Even though Sofia was never one to wake up early, she still dragged herself there with panda eyes to order a red velvet birthday cake. As usual, Maren had taken the first subway to the New York School of Visual Arts. When her class ended, the department chair had personally approached her to tell her that, because of her top grades, the school had decided to nominate her for a special scholarship to the Rhode Island School of Design. At that moment, she felt like the happiest bird in the world, ready to soar straight into the sky. It was a perfect day. The sun was shining, and even the smell of hot dogs from the street vendor was tempting. Everything seemed to fall into place, and she was so happy she almost wanted to sing out loud. If only that phone call hadn't come. If only she hadn't agreed to meet this man. If only she hadn't made that absurd promise, today would've been the happiest day of her life. Suddenly, her phone in her backpack rang, its monotone, urgent ringtone cutting through the silence of the guest room. Maren's heart skipped a beat, and her fingers trembled uncontrollably. Her asthma flared up a bit, her throat itching painfully, and she had to cough a few times to clear it. Just then, the door swung open. Maren stared at the entrance, as though caught in some absurd dream. The phone kept ringing stubbornly. The man who entered didn't seem to hear it at all as he walked straight toward her. Maren awkwardly stood up, the cold sweat on her back making her shirt stick to her skin. "Miss Cole, I'm Nathan, Mr. Walker's chief assistant. Mr. Walker is currently in a video meeting and will be finished in about thirty minutes. He asked me to come and inform you of the schedule for tonight." The man's tone was so formal, his voice as flat as could be, with that distant aloofness typical of Wall Street elites. "Schedule?" Maren repeated instinctively. Wasn't he just paying for a little fun? It wasn't like he was managing a hedge fund or plotting corporate takeovers. Did this really require such careful planning? "Yes," Nathan replied seriously. "Mr. Walker is a perfectionist. He likes everything to be planned to the smallest detail." This was starting to feel like some twisted black comedy. Maren forced a smile, the kind that didn't reach her eyes. It was no surprise. After all, he was the golden boy of Wall Street, the hottest capital tycoon in New York. She was just one of his bought-and-paid-for possessions. Of course, he'd be meticulous, squeezing every bit of value out of her. Before Nathan could finish his schedule, the phone rang again, breaking the silence. He glanced up at Maren's pale face and asked, "Miss Cole, would you like to take that call?" A phone call. Right. She should probably pick up. But when Maren saw the familiar number on the screen, she couldn't bring herself to press the answer button. Her back was drenched in cold sweat, and her body felt like it had plunged into an icebox, a chill running through her veins, making her legs weak. "Miss Cole, are you okay?" Nathan's voice broke through her daze. He watched her fixated on the phone, unwilling to answer, and couldn't help but remind her, "You should take the call. I think... it's best you sort out your personal matters before Mr. Walker arrives." He paused, his lips curling into a slight smile, "You know, Mr. Walker doesn't like wasting time, especially on irrelevant things." With that, he turned and walked out, leaving Maren alone in the spacious guestroom. The cold air seemed to swallow her whole, nearly suffocating her. Irrelevant things? Of course, in their world, her problems, her life, were just trivial matters. Maybe she should be thankful he didn't say something worse, something that would have humiliated her even more. But what did it matter? Her life, alongside Sofia's, had long been divided into thirds. One-third spent enduring insults, another third waiting for the next round of humiliation, and the final third licking her wounds, nursing the damage that the shame left behind. Anyway, after the humiliation, life had to go on. The phone rang again, the sharp tone like a death knell. Maren knew she couldn't avoid it, so, trembling, she finally pressed the answer button. The moment the call connected, the sound of heavy rain mixed with the honking of New York City traffic blared through the receiver, the background noise almost unbearable. "Maren... where are you?" Sofia's voice came through, laced with an unspoken frustration, the familiar Latin accent making her words stand out. Maren opened her mouth, but no words came out. She didn't know how to explain it in a way that wouldn't make the person on the other end of the line doubt her, but still, not make her completely fall apart. "Maren, where are you?" Sofia's voice came again, this time with a sharper edge. Maren took a deep breath, and finally, she chose to lie. "Um... Sofia, I'm really sorry, but I'm going to have to spend your birthday alone this year. A friend of mine is leaving for Paris next week, and we're throwing her a farewell party tonight..." "You've got a friend who can afford a Bugatti special edition? Someone close enough that you'd ditch our birthday plans and hide it from me?" Sofia's tone turned biting, with that same Brooklyn street-cat energy—sharp claws hidden under a sea of uncertainty. Maren froze, the words barely leaving her lips. "How did you know..." "How did I know? The guy who works at the Cuban sandwich shop downstairs told me. You know how obsessed he is with those super-expensive cars. I was just walking to the corner this afternoon when he practically ran over to me, all excited, saying he saw you getting picked up in one of those cars—one of the fourteen limited-edition luxury cars in the world. Maren, when did you start hanging out with people worth billions? Why didn't you introduce me?" Sofia's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Sofia, I..." Maren opened her mouth, but words failed her. She didn't know what to say.