"Hello? Who is this?"

The voice on the other end of the line answers quickly. Zara Powell thinks it sounds different from the man she’d met at the library earlier that day. Her memory’s been spotty these past two years anyway—she’s probably just misremembering.

She glances down to double-check the last name printed on the business card, her nerves prickling as she speaks. "Mr. Zhao, hello. We met earlier at the library. I’m Zara Powell. You mentioned you were looking for an illustrator for a magazine, and suggested I throw my hat in the ring. You remember that, right?"

In the driver’s seat, Mr. Zhao puts the call on speaker. In the back, Samir Powell freezes mid-document, his hand hovering still over the page. He taps the car window once with his long, sharp fingers, and Mr. Zhao slams on the brakes immediately, twisting around in his seat with a respectful posture.

Samir’s expression doesn’t shift, not even a little. He types one quick line on his phone and passes the screen up to the driver. Surprised but quick to obey, Mr. Zhao relays: "Ah, yeah, I remember you. Let’s meet at the Grand International Hotel, Room 1808."

Even as he says the words, Mr. Zhao’s tone shifts. He’s sweating internally, waiting for the furious outburst that’s definitely coming. What the hell is the boss playing at this time?

There’s a beat of silence on Zara’s end before her surprisingly calm voice comes back. "Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Could you repeat that again?"

Uneasy, Mr. Zhao repeats himself: "It’s room 1808 at the Grand International Hotel. Don’t get the wrong idea, Miss Powell. I’m swamped today and can only meet during my lunch break, that’s all."

On the other end of the line, Zara’s lips go white. The man she met at the library didn’t strike her as the type to suggest something this skeevy. Her phone buzzes in her hand right then. It’s a notification for another overdue bill. She still hasn’t covered her mom’s latest hospital bill.

Her fingers press hard into the window sill, hard enough to crack a nail. Finally, she says, "You mentioned you pay two thousand up front."

Mr. Zhao glances back at Samir, sees him nod once, and replies: "No problem at all, Miss Powell. Send me your account details and I’ll transfer the money right now. I’m counting on you not to disappoint me."

Cold sweat beads in Zara’s palm. Two thousand pounds, added to what she already has scraped together, is barely enough to cover her mom’s next round of chemo and all the extra medical bills.

She presses her lips together tight and answers, "You can trust me. I just… I really need the money right now. But I swear I won’t let you down. I’ll head over right away."

The call ends. After Zara sends over her account information, a text ping comes through almost immediately: the two thousand pound deposit has hit her account. She grips her phone so hard her knuckles go white, her head spinning. She can’t believe it’s that easy… but part of her feels hollow, too, like she can’t even celebrate that she got the money.

She doesn’t have time to dwell. She pays the hospital bill at the front lobby right away, knowing time is tight, then swallows down the lump of anxiety in her throat and hails a cab to the hotel.

When she reaches the door of the top-floor room, she pulls out her phone to double-check the room number against the text. Then she adjusts her face mask and glasses—even though they don’t make her feel any safer right now. Her hand feels like it’s made of lead, hovering in the air halfway to knocking, when her phone beeps again.

She checks the message: "Door’s unlocked. Just come on in."

Before she turns the handle, she scrolls through her contacts, her thumb pausing over Simon Archer’s name. She doesn’t hit call. Her shaking hand keeps the phone pressed tight to her side, hidden behind her back.

The door creaks open slowly and she steps inside, repeating the same lie to herself under her breath: You’re overthinking it. That man at the library was polite, refined. He’s not that kind of guy. Two thousand pounds for a quick fuck… Zara Powell isn’t even worth that much, anyway.

Inside, the sprawling suite is completely empty. Her unease grows so thick it’s almost suffocating, and she aches to run. At least if there was someone else here, if they met in the hallway… this would be less awful.

She turns to leave, and a cold, biting voice snaps out from behind her: "You really are fucking despicable, aren’t you?"

Zara’s scream dies in her throat the second she recognizes that voice. Her brain feels like it’s exploding. A firm hand clamps down on her shoulder, yanks her around, and slams her back against the wall before she can move. Samir Powell has her pinned, his eyes blazing like a predator who’s finally caught his prey. He squeezes her chin so hard it aches, and snarls: "You want a man that bad? You’ll whore yourself out to any stranger for cash?"

How the fuck is this him? Zara can’t breathe, she’s too shocked. All she can do is stare up at him, her eyes swimming with fear. What is happening? Was the guy at the library all part of Samir’s plan from the very start? Why would he go through all this trouble just to trap her? What does she even have that he wants?

When she doesn’t answer, he squeezes harder, his jaw tight. "Answer me! Are you just disappointed it’s me instead of Simon Archer?"

Zara finally snaps back to her senses, and she shakes her head slowly. "I don’t know who you’re talking about."

Samir’s gaze cuts sharper than a knife. "Still playing stupid! You love money that much? You’d sell your body for a lousy two grand?"

Now Zara gets it. He set this whole thing up just to humiliate her, to prove she’d sell herself for cash. Her chin throbs where he’s holding her, and she forces a wobbly, strained smile. "My body isn’t even worth two thousand. You overestimate me, Mr. Powell."

Samir snorts coldy. "You’re right about that. You wanna sell? I’ll fucking give you what you want."

He moves so fast she can’t react. The silk blouse tears open down the seam with a sharp rip. It’s the blouse Ailani Rivera gave her to change into when she was at the old manor. Something tight snaps in Zara’s head. Her face goes deathly white as she swats his hand away from her clothes, trembling so hard her whole body shakes as she hugs her arms tight around herself to cover up.

Samir presses his fists to the wall on either side of her, caging her in as she crouches there terrified. He taunts, "What’s this? You came here to sell, now you’re playing hard to get? Or are you just picky about who buys you?"

Zara’s whole body shakes violently. It takes her a full minute to get her breathing under control, and when she speaks her voice is soft, almost broken. "Mr. Powell, you’re high status. You have everything. I’m nothing, dirty, not even worthy of your bed. I’m sure there’s someone much more suitable—"

"Get the fuck out!" Samir slams his fist into the wall so hard the plaster cracks.

Zara flinches, and she wriggles out from under his arm as fast as she can, clutching her torn blouse to her chest as she scrambles for the door. When she reaches the threshold, she pauses for half a second, and says quietly, "I’ll pay the money back."

The night air is cool. A light drizzle started falling while she was inside, and she didn’t even notice. Standing on the sidewalk outside the hotel, Zara stares at the raindrops splashing at her feet, and the helplessness in her chest grows heavier and heavier.

She already gave all the money to the hospital. She’s still got hundreds more expenses coming. Where the hell is she going to get two thousand pounds to pay him back?

The night wind wraps around her, cutting straight through her thin blouse and chilling her to the bone. Her phone rings. It’s the hospital.

Zara answers fast, and the urgent voice on the other end says, "Miss Powell, your mother collapsed. She needs an emergency blood transfusion. Her blood type is so rare, our blood bank is temporarily out of stock."

"I’m a match. I’ll be there right now." Zara’s heart leaps into her throat as she speaks, and she hails another cab immediately, scrambling inside.

---

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When Zara Powell stepped through the hospital doors, a sharp, twisting pain clamped down on her stomach. She pressed a shaking hand to the ache as she stumbled into the elevator.

She’d skipped dinner again. Years of missing meals had left her with chronic stomach problems that flared up when she pushed herself too hard.

Her friend lay unconscious in a bed down the hall, and Dr. John Swift—white coat crisp over his scrubs—sat waiting right beside the door. When he saw Zara walk in, he stood immediately and crossed to her, concern carved deep into his features. “You look like hell. Are you okay?”

Zara shook her head, forcing her expression to stay steady. “I’m fine. Where do I go to donate blood?”

John almost pressed her to sit down and rest first, but one look at her tight, jittery face made him hold his tongue.

A nurse led Zara to the donation room. As the plasma slowly drained from her arm, a wave of dizziness rolled over her. She pressed her fingertips to her temples, trying to ground herself.

Only a hundred milliliters in, the stomach pain spiked, and cold sweat broke out all over her skin. When she stepped out of the room, she had to lean against the corridor wall just to stay upright.

Out of nowhere, a middle-aged woman rushed up to her and dropped to her knees with a sharp thud right in front of Zara. Her voice cracked with raw emotion: “Please. Save my son.”

The woman looked familiar. Zara realized she’d seen her lingering outside her mother’s room earlier, glancing in over and over.

Zara fumbled to steady herself and bent down to tug her up. “Please stand up, I’m not a doctor.”

The woman wouldn’t move. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she stayed rooted on her knees. “I saw you donating blood for that other lady. My son needs it too. I’m begging you, help him.”

Zara hesitated. Her stomach was already screaming, and giving more blood right now was dangerous.

The woman scrambled to her feet and shoved a thick wad of cash into Zara’s hands—ten thousand dollars, all crumpled together. “Please. This is every penny I have, but I’ll pay whatever you need. Anything.”

Zara glanced down at the money, a sharp ache of sadness twisting in her chest. She turned to the nurse standing nearby. “Can I donate more?”

The nurse, eyeing the cash in Zara’s grip, frowned disapprovingly, but answered honestly anyway. “The maximum per donation is 500 milliliters. You’ve got 300 left you can give.”

Hope blazed to life in the woman’s eyes. She clutched Zara’s arm, begging so hard her hands shook. “Yes, any amount works! Blood can be stored for later. Miss, please, don’t worry about the money—it’s all yours.” She fumbled to stuff the entire wad into the pocket of Zara’s coat.

It was a borrowed coat, from her friend—Zara’s own top had gotten torn earlier that day.

After the second round of donation, Zara’s head was spinning so bad her vision blurred at the edges. The woman, as soon as she saw the nurse carry the vials of blood toward her son’s room, hurried off without another word to Zara.

Zara forced herself to steady up and grabbed the woman’s arm before she could get away. “Wait a second, please.”

The woman stopped, and when she turned back, impatience was all over her face, her eyes wary. “How much more do you want? Ten thousand is already a lot.”

Zara frowned, but pushed through the fog in her head to speak. “Could you leave your contact information? I want to pay you back.”

The woman waved her off like Zara was being ridiculous. “No need.” Then she turned and hurried off down the corridor, vanishing around a corner before Zara could say another word.

Zara let out a bitter, breathless laugh. She’d already taken the money—why add humiliation to the whole thing?

When she turned to leave, John Swift hurried over to her. He reached out to steady her, then pulled his hand back at the last second. He handed her a warm paper cup of coffee, his voice soft and gentle. “You haven’t eaten anything, right? A hundred milliliters shouldn’t leave you this pale.”

Zara leaned back against the wall, drew a deep breath, and lifted her head. “Dr. Swift, I’m going home tonight. I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Could you let my mom know?” She didn’t want her mother seeing her like this and worrying.

A staff member nearby spoke up. “I can drive you home.”

“No, thank you.” Zara stepped around his outstretched hand and made her way slowly to the elevator. John called after her, his voice a tangled mix of worry and frustration: “Zara, take care of yourself. Stop pushing this hard.”

When she stepped out of the hospital, the night air was crisp and cool, a steady fine drizzle falling over the parking lot. Zara walked slowly, the ten thousand dollars in her coat pocket heavy as lead. Just ten thousand more, and she’d be able to pay him back.

In this whole world, she could owe anyone money—except Samir Powell.

Suddenly, a strong, calloused hand clamped down on her shoulder, making her jump. It shoved her back hard, slamming her against one of the thick stone columns out front of the hospital. The shock and the throbbing ache in her stomach were almost enough to make her crumple right there. She was already so exhausted, and when she lifted her head to see who it was, the fatigue washed over her like a wave.

Samir Powell’s eyes were bloodshot. In the dim streetlight, his blazing gaze pinned her in place. “You’d sell your blood instead of coming to me. Zara, who are you playing martyr for? What pity are you trying to fish for?”

Zara’s gaze was unfocused, a tired little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Martyrdom? She had nothing left. How could she play at that? She was just scared—too scared to ever let this man back into her life again.

To Samir, that smile was infuriating. He grabbed her chin, hard, forcing her to hold his gaze. After a long, tense pause, he spoke, his voice sharp with biting sarcasm: “If you’re so desperate to sell parts of yourself for cash, why not sell an organ?”

Another wave of dizziness crashed over her. She murmured soft and slow, “Hard to find a buyer. You know any, Mr. Powell?”

“Is money all you ever care about?!” Samir’s voice cracked with raw anger. He pressed harder, shoving her back until her spine slammed into the stone column again.

Zara’s mind went fuzzy. Everything around her blurred. His face swam in front of her, unrecognizable. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead, and she couldn’t force a single word out.

Samir’s growl echoed right in her ear: “Talk!”

The sound boomed through her foggy mind, shattering the last fragile thread of her consciousness. She slumped forward, right into his shoulder, and for a split second, Samir froze. The tight, angry look on his face locked in place, his hands hung open, totally unsure what to do. Only when her body started slipping down did he react, yanking her tight against his chest to catch her. His voice came out rough, edged with uncharacteristic uncertainty: “Zara?”

No answer. Her face was pale and soft, like a child sleeping peacefully. A sharp, blinding panic surged through him. He lifted her into his arms, carried her quickly to his idling car, and snapped at his driver over his shoulder, cold and sharp: “Back to the estate.”