CHAPTER EIGHT
1526 Words
ROCHELLE
“I’m sorry, we’re fully booked.”
“That’s beyond our budget, apologies.”
“We only assist children, sincere regrets.”
“She needs a healthcare plan before we can help.”
“I’m sorry…
...I’m sorry…
…apologies…
…sincere regrets…”
“AHHHHH!!” I scream, throwing documents, newspapers, flyers, and cash across the floor.
Anxiety washes over me, suffocating and relentless. I start hyperventilating—short, ragged breaths clawing at my throat.
“I... I... I can’t... I can’t!” I cough, breaking into heart-wrenching, soul-shattering sobs that echo off the walls of my bedroom.
Come on, Rochelle, I tell myself. Wipe those tears. You’re not weak. You’ll find a way through this. You have to... for Becky.
I shove everything back into my backpack, throw on faded jeans and a brown crop top, and pull my ginger curls into a messy bun. Sneakers on, I head out.
I pause outside Becky’s room and crack the door. She sleeps, breathing shallow and eerily even—almost like she’s running out of air.
Let’s do this.
Closing the door softly behind me, I mount my bike and pedal toward the café.
●●●
Like clockwork, parked across the street, sits a familiar Tesla.
I lock my bike and cross the street, knocking on the glass.
“Ginger, hey,” Ethan, Kieran’s friend from last night, greets me with a wide smile.
“Where’s your friend?” I ask, putting on my sternest face.
“Kieran? Not here. He sent me to pick you up—or see if you’ve changed your mind.” His grin is infectious, and I give a small smile.
“Is that why you’re stalking outside where I work? What is this… Law and Order?” I scoff, still smiling.
He just shrugs, still grinning.
“Take me to him.” I climb into the car and buckle up.
“Okay, boss lady.” Ethan laughs, pulling away.
●●●
“What is this place?” I ask, eyes scanning the room. It looks like an upscale bar or casino, filled with exotic dancers and men and women dressed in the finest, most expensive attire money can buy.
“Don’t look too much,” Ethan whispers into my ear, his hand protectively resting on my waist as he guides me up a flight of stairs and through a crimson-lit room.
Inside, more dancers—half-naked or completely bare—move seductively. The thick scent of cigars, weed, cocaine, s*x, and alcohol assaults my nose. I scrunch it in disgust.
“Why are we here?” I snap, planting my feet to stop, holding Ethan back.
“Just come with me,” he groans, pulling me forward. My fragile frame is no match for his firm grip.
We enter a private room. There stands Kieran—shirtless, a red whip in one hand and what looks like a clamp in the other.
Before him, a petite blonde is suspended, arms and legs bound, hanging naked in midair.
“What is this?” I whisper, a mix of horror and fascination in my eyes.
Ethan leans over to Kieran and whispers something. Kieran nods, handing clamps to women who look like waitresses—but without uniforms.
He signals for the blonde to be untied and stuffs a wad of cash into her mouth, replacing her gag with bills.
Ethan turns to me and pulls me out of the room, settling me into a dimly lit lounge filled with champagne.
*What did I just witness? Was that… is he… is that??*
My eyes widen, glued to the sofa as I sit frozen, barely breathing, trying to process the scene.
“I didn’t expect you back so soon...” Kieran chuckles, lighting a cigar as he slouches opposite me, legs spread, shirt unbuttoned—revealing a perfectly chiseled chest.
*This guy is hot. Hot doesn’t even begin to cover it. The best or worst part? He knows it.*
I watch him, mentally drooling as he orders a bourbon for himself and orange juice for me.
“Having fun?” His emerald eyes glint with mischief.
“Funny,” I snap, forcing myself to look away.
“What was that?” I whisper.
His jaw tightens; his gaze turns cold and distant.
The waitress returns, setting down our drinks before retreating. His stare never falters.
“It’s a hobby,” he says with a cough, hiding his cigar and downing the bourbon in one gulp.
“A hobby?” I raise an eyebrow, skeptical.
“Drop it.” He clenches his jaw.
“O…kay,” I murmur, taking a small sip of the cold juice.
“Anyway... I’m here to take you up on your offer.” I sigh, meeting his gaze.
“If the offer’s still available,” I add, watching his lips twitch into a mischievous smile.
After a long pause, he finally speaks.
“Of course it is.” He laughs, rising and signaling me to follow.
●●●
“You have an office here?” I scoff as we enter a small, dimly lit room adorned with leather and mahogany.
“Don’t be naive, Rochelle. I think it’s pretty obvious.”
“What’s obvious?”
“I own this place.” He replies, gesturing to a chair and taking a seat across from me, a table between us.
“Sign.” He slides a contract covered in fine print across the table.
“Can I at least read it?” I ask, and he nods.
Settling in, I scan the document carefully.
Excuse me???
“No offense, but this says you can do whatever you want with me?” My voice rises with shock and anger.
He laughs, low and sultry, like warm chocolate melting over my skin.
“If I’m paying for your sister’s treatment, I own you. In case you didn’t notice, I have the upper hand here.” He rests his hand on the table, eyes daring me to refuse.
“I can always say no,” I say defiantly, testing his patience.
“Then by all means...” He laughs, settling back into his chair.
“...hand over my contract.” His tone is threatening now.
“Why me of all people?!” I shout, a storm of confusion, fear, and helplessness raging inside me.
I hate feeling this way—needing this contract, knowing he’s right. He holds the power.
I wait, expecting him to lose control, to lash out, to give me a reason not to sign.
But he’s been… surprisingly decent so far. No reason to be afraid.
He’ll be good to you, Rochelle… edgy but respectful… sort of.
“Do you trust me?” His eyes soften, genuine and heartfelt.
“Trust you?” I ask, confused.
“Yeah. Do you trust me, Rochelle Sutherland?” He draws out my full name, voice eerily calm.
“If I said no?” I breathe, heart pounding under his intense gaze.
“Good gracious!” He slouches back, laughing dryly.
“Don’t sign the contract,” he jokes.
“If I said yes?” I try again, breath hitching, palms sweaty, nerves frayed.
He stares at me for what feels like forever.
“What you saw earlier—in the red room...” His tone turns serious, lips pressing into a thin line.
“That was a hobby. I’d never do that to you. I hold you in higher regard.” His British accent thickens, soothing.
I nod, swallowing my fear, deciding to trust him.
I sign.
“Beautiful,” he breathes, emerald eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Want to be taken home?” he asks, signing the contract with care.
“Uh... yeah,” I reply nervously, playing with the hem of my dress.
He calls Ethan in.
“Ethan, please take Rochelle home.” He smiles, and I blush inwardly at the sound of my name on his tongue.
Ethan nods and guides me out, escorting me in a sleek black Bentley.
●●●
“This is me,” I chuckle as Ethan parks in front of my house.
“So... you signed the contract, huh?” He smiles.
“Yeah... well... I didn’t really have a choice.” I laugh dryly.
“You always have a choice, Rochelle.” His voice is suddenly serious.
“Way to kill the mood,” I tease, patting his hand lightly.
“Let me walk you inside—gentleman’s honor.” He laughs, stepping out with me.
“You don’t have to,” I chuckle, unlocking the door and switching on the lights.
To my horror, in the middle of the living room lies an unconscious Becky, sprawled on the floor.
“Becky?” I call, panic flooding me as I rush to her side, hyperventilating.
“She passed out again.” I whisper, tears streaking down my face as I look at Ethan.
“Here, I got her,” he assures, lifting Becky effortlessly into his arms.
“We’ll use the family hospital,” he says, starting the car.
I nod, cradling Becky’s head as he drives off into the night.
- Writer
