"Ms. Booth, I'm on my way to renew. You know it's rush hour—traffic's a mess. I'll transfer the money right now. Just recharge the card first."

I forced myself to stay calm, but my voice still shook.

"I'll wire ten grand. No—fifty. Send someone to find Maya. Bring her back to her VIP room. Please."

This was out of my hands. If I pushed too hard, she'd take it out on Maya. My voice dropped, almost begging.

Winnie laughed—sharp and grating.

"Oh, Ms. Keyne, I'm so sorry." She didn't sound it. "New policy. For client security, all large recharges and renewals must be signed in person by a family member with valid ID. We don't accept remote transfers."

"Just bring Maya back. I'm begging you. It's freezing out. She can't handle it. I'm two kilometers away—I'll be there any minute."

Tears burned at my eyes. It felt like a fist squeezing my chest.

"I'm sorry, but your balance is zero. You're not our client. Our staff are busy. We're not searching the streets for a non-client."

"Two kilometers? Even if you were two feet away, your balance would still be zero." Her voice went flat. "Sorry, Ms. Keyne. I have work to do. Please come recharge as soon as possible."

Click. The line went dead.

I stared at the endless line of red taillights. Despair hit from deep inside.

Maya's paper-white face kept flashing in my head.

She was kind. Gentle. Couldn't even step on an ant.

Just days ago, she smiled at me. "Kylie, you're busy. You don't have to come so much. I'm fine here. They take good care of me."

And now she was out in the freezing cold.

She couldn't stand. Stuck in that icy wheelchair—or did they dump her on the ground?

My chest felt like it was cracking open.

"Winnie Booth..." I bit down hard, tasted blood.

I locked my eyes on the road. No idea how long it took, but the recovery center gates finally came into view.

I didn't think. I shoved the car door open and ran.

The wind hit my face like knives, bits of ice stinging my skin.

I was in a tailored suit and stilettos. Didn't care how I looked as I rushed into the recovery center's fancy lobby.

The heat blasted inside, thick and suffocating.

A few nurses at the front desk were snacking, chatting. They froze when I came in.

I ignored them and headed straight for the manager's office.

Inside, Winnie sat in a wide leather chair.

Her designer suit fit like trash—loud and off. She held a small mirror, carefully swiping on bright red lipstick.

I burst in. Her hand jerked. The lipstick dragged crooked across her mouth.

"Who do you think you are? Ever heard of knocking?" She shot up, slammed the mirror down, and pointed at me. "This is the manager's office at Cloudemont Retreat, not a street market."

I walked up and slammed both hands on her desk. My eyes locked on hers, voice ice-cold.

"Where is Maya Keyne?"

She paused, eyes dragging over me. The flicker of panic vanished—replaced by pure contempt.

"Oh, Ms. Keyne." She eased back into her chair, grabbed a tissue, and wiped the lipstick off the corner of her mouth. "Did you bring enough money?"

"I did. Now get Maya back."

I was still catching my breath as I pulled a black-and-gold card from my bag and slapped it on the desk.

"Run it. Put fifty grand on it. Send every caregiver you've got to find her. Now."

"I understand you're anxious, but we have procedures."

She glanced at the card, then back at me, eyes taunting.

"Per our new policy at Cloudemont, renewals require a new service contract. No signed contract, no payment. It's to prevent certain family members from making false claims later."

"Fine. A contract." I swallowed it down, chest heaving. "Bring it. I'll sign."

If it got the staff out there—got Maya back inside, warm, on oxygen—I could take a few minutes of this.

Once she was safe, I'd make this woman—and the director—learn what hell felt like.

"What's the rush? If you want to sign, I'll have to draft it."

She saw how desperate I was. It lit something ugly in her eyes.

She slowed on purpose, turned to her computer, and took her time.

Time dragged, second by second. Each one cut deeper.

"Hurry up!"

"What's the rush? The computer's slow, can't you see?" Winnie snapped.

Her hand crawled over the mouse, flipping through folders at a snail's pace.

Open. Glance. Close. Open another.

"Now where did I put that template?" she muttered, sneaking looks at me. "We just updated it. I really can't remember."

"Winnie Booth, you got a death wish?" I grabbed her collar and yanked her out of the chair. "Do you know how cold it is out there? My sister's weak. If anything happens to her, you won't know a single peaceful day for the rest of your life!"

She shrieked. "You dare touch me? Security! Where's security?"

Then she steadied, sneering. "Go ahead. Hit me. Lay a finger on me, and I guarantee you won't find your sister—and you'll be the one arrested. Then she really will be left out there to die."

I stared at her. Rage roared in my ears, begging me to snap her neck.

But Maya's pale face flashed in my mind. My grip loosened.

I shoved her back and dragged in a breath. "Print it. Now."

She fixed her collar, smug. Then—finally—she found the file and hit print.

The old printer hummed to life.

She grabbed her coffee, twisted the lid, blew on it, took a slow sip.

"This thing really needs replacing. A few dozen pages takes forever," she said, casual.

The printer crawled, pausing between each sheet.

I stared at the tray. My fists clenched so tight my nails cut into my palms. Blood seeped through my fingers. I didn't feel it.

All I could think about was Maya.

Where was she?

Had anyone decent given her a coat? She missed her meds. If the nerve pain hit, how bad would it get?

Five long minutes later, the thick stack—over thirty pages—finally finished printing.

I reached for the stack, but Winnie slapped her hand over it.

"What's the rush? I haven't organized it yet."

She lifted the papers and tapped them on the desk.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Slow. Deliberate.

Like she was enjoying this.

If one page was even a little off, she pulled it out, fixed it, slid it back in.

"That's enough." I ground the words out. "Give me the pen."

Only after lining it up did she open a drawer and pull out a stapler.

She started fastening the pages—painfully slow. After each press, she held the stack up, checking if any page stuck out.

Three staples should've taken seconds. She stretched it to half a minute.

Finally, she slid the contract over and handed me a pen.

I grabbed it, flipped to the last page, ready to sign.

Right as the tip touched down, she slapped her hand over the line.

I looked up, eyes sharp.

"What now?"

She met my eyes, a vicious smile curling up.

Leaning in, she took on that fake, lecturing tone. "Ms. Keyne, this contract covers your sister's full treatment plan and liability waiver."

Her red nail tapped the thick stack.

"We're a fully compliant facility. We follow procedure. To avoid disputes—or certain family members making unreasonable claims—"

She paused, eyes gleaming.

"Per our latest policy, you need to read every word of all thirty-five pages before signing. Miss one, and you won't be signing anything today."