Chapter 4 4

Her hand tightened around the ring, pressing so hard the fake stone dug into her palm, leaving a perfect circle that would bruise by morning. Her throat closed as she stumbled out of the shop, Her boots slipped across the wet sidewalk, every step more uncertain than the last

A bus roared past, spraying her legs with icy water. She barely felt it. Her world had already gone numb.

Harry's laughter drifted through her memory, warm, careless, like wind chimes in summer. His promises had wrapped around her like a blanket, whispering of forever, of a future built on morning coffee kisses and the scent of freshly baked bread from the bakery they'd open together.

Lies.

Everything they had built-no, everything she thought they had built-was a lie. The bakery they had dreamed of was gone, lost in a tide of debts Harry had left behind. She saw his face in every dark window she passed, every reflection taunting her with what she had lost.

The knock came late that night. Three sharp raps, deliberate, heavy enough to rattle the cheap wood of the door. Her hand hesitated on the knob, the tremor in her fingers betraying her dread.

"Miss Wayne?" The man's voice was smooth, almost polite, but when she opened the door, the look in his eyes was anything but kind. A second man stood beside him, eyes scanning her tiny apartment with thinly veiled contempt.

Debt collectors.

They didn't care about Harry's promises. They didn't care about the bakery or the ring now tucked in her pocket like a shard of glass cutting her every time she moved.

They wanted their money.

Paper after paper shoved at her, red letters screaming across the top. Overdue. Final Notice. Default.

Sarah remembered signing the papers, laughing as Harry kissed her neck, telling her she was going to be the best bakery owner in the city. She hadn't even read the fine print. She hadn't wanted to.

She was in love.

Now, her signature was the noose tightening around her neck.

She tried to argue, voice cracking, words sticking in her throat, but the men only shook their heads, the taller one smirking as he glanced around at the tiny living room littered with boxes.

"We'll be in touch, Miss Wayne."

The door clicked shut, the sound final.

That night, she couldn't sleep. The city hummed beyond the cracked window, neon lights blinking in rhythm with the panic beating in her chest. She clutched the ring to her heart, curled on the thin mattress, rocking as she tried to silence the voice screaming in her head:

You were nothing to him.

A week later, the landlord's knock replaced the debt collectors' visits. This time, there was no smirk, just tired eyes and an apologetic shrug.

"I can't give you more time, Sarah."

She had no energy left to beg.

Two black garbage bags and a battered suitcase sat at her feet as the water dripped from her lashes, cold and sharp as the truth she'd been running from. She stood on the sidewalk, blinking against the cold drizzle, the world passing her by as if she were invisible.

She pressed a hand against her stomach, trying to keep herself from unraveling. She needed somewhere to go. Anywhere.

Maria's door was the only place she could think of. It was a sixty-minute walk, but every step felt like she was dragging chains behind her, the wet fabric of her jeans heavy against her legs.

The hallway smelled of stale cigarettes and bleach, the buzzing overhead light flickering as she raised a trembling hand to knock.

Maria opened the door, dark eyes widening as she took in Sarah's soaked hair, the bags at her feet, the haunted look in her eyes.

"Jesus, Sarah."

Warm arms pulled her inside, the door closing softly behind them. Maria's apartment smelled like coffee and vanilla candles, the air warm, a stark contrast to the cold seeping into Sarah's bones.

Maria didn't ask questions that night. She wrapped Sarah in a blanket, pressed a steaming mug of tea into her shaking hands, and let her sit in silence while the rain drummed against the window.

In Maria's small bathroom, Sarah peeled off her wet clothes, standing under the too-hot spray of the shower until her skin turned pink. She pressed her forehead against the tiles, letting the water drown out the sobs she could no longer hold back.

When she stepped out, she caught her reflection in the foggy mirror, wiping it away with the back of her hand. The woman staring back at her looked older, eyes sunken, lips cracked, hair hanging limp around her pale face.

Who am I now?

She curled up on Maria's couch that night, listening to the city outside, the ticking of the clock on the wall, the sound of her own breathing as she counted every second, waiting for morning.

Days blurred into each other. Sarah applied for jobs, standing in line with others who had the same desperation in their eyes. She handed out resumes at diners, coffee shops, retail stores, but every call back was another rejection, another reminder that she was nothing but debt and a broken heart.

Maria came home late most nights, the scent of expensive perfume clinging to her clothes, the faint glitter of makeup around her eyes. She never looked tired, only alive, like the city had given her something Sarah could no longer find within herself.

One night, Maria tossed her heels into the corner and sat beside Sarah on the couch, a bottle of cheap wine between them.

"You can't keep living like this," Maria said, filling their glasses. Her butterfly tattoo peeked out from under the strap of her dress as she leaned back, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders.

Sarah stared into her wine, the red liquid trembling with her unsteady hands.

"I don't know what else to do."

Maria's eyes softened, but her voice was firm. "Come work with me."

Sarah's head snapped up, her stomach twisting. "I can't."

"You can. Just serve drinks. You don't have to do anything else. The tips are good, and you need the money."

Sarah shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. "I can't do that, Maria. I can't."

Maria sighed, taking a sip of her wine. "Your pride isn't going to keep you warm, babe."

Sarah wanted to argue, but the words caught in her throat.

The next week the growing weight of reality pressing down on her. The hunger became a dull ache, a constant reminder that her pride wouldn't fill her stomach.

"Fine," Sarah whispered, her voice hollow. "I'll do it."

The club was nothing like she imagined. Neon lights flickered over the crowd, music pulsing so hard she felt it in her bones. The air was thick with sweat, perfume, and the sharp tang of alcohol.

Maria handed her a black skirt and a backless top that left her feeling naked. She stood in the tiny dressing room, staring at herself in the mirror, tugging at the hem of the skirt, trying to pull it lower.

Maria's reflection appeared behind her, dark eyes meeting hers in the mirror.

"Just smile, Sarah. They'll tip more if you smile."

Sarah tried, but it felt like her lips would crack.

She stepped onto the floor, weaving between tables, balancing trays of drinks while men's eyes followed her, lingering, hungry. Every hand that brushed against her waist made her skin crawl, but she forced herself to keep moving.

The music was too loud, the lights too bright, and the laughter around her felt like knives against her skin.

She needed the money.

She needed to survive.

"Hey, sweetheart!"

The shout cut through the noise as she approached a booth in the corner, the man there leaning back, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a gold chain resting against dark chest hair. His eyes glistened with the glint of someone who thought the world belonged to him.

"One more drink," he ordered, leering.

She placed the glass on the table, praying he would let her walk away, but a rough hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, yanking her onto his lap.

Her tray clattered to the ground, glass shattering, liquid splashing across her legs as she struggled.

"Don't fight it, baby," he slurred, his hand sliding up her thigh, his breath hot against her ear. "Name your price."

Her body went cold. She twisted, trying to push him away, but his grip tightened, bruising her skin.

"Let me go," she gasped, her voice lost in the pounding bass.

His laughter was sharp, cruel. "Everything's got a price."

Something inside her snapped.

Sarah's hand shot up, slapping him across the face so hard her palm stung. The shock in his eyes turned to rage as she scrambled off his lap, her breath ragged, hands shaking.

"You bitch-"

The man scowled, his hand darting out to grab her again, but she dodged him, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. She didn't care about the tray she dropped or the drinks that spilled to the floor. All she knew was that she had to get out of there.

Sarah had thought she was strong enough for this, that she could handle whatever the night threw at her. But in that moment, with her heart still racing and her skin crawling, she realized just how far she had fallen. How desperate she had become.

The music pounded in Sarah's ears, amplifying her panic as she tried to escape the suffocating club atmosphere. She'd never felt so exposed, so desperate to leave. In her rush, she collided with someone, her heart sinking as a drink spilled across the man's pristine shirt.

"Sorry!" she gasped, barely able to keep her voice steady as she attempted to flee. But before she could get away, a firm hand wrapped around her wrist, stopping her in her tracks.

The man she'd bumped into was tall, towering over her with broad shoulders that filled out his crisp white shirt, now damp with the spilled drink. His sharp features and the sharp angles of his jawline made him undeniably handsome, but his cold, penetrating gaze sent a chill down her spine.

Nathan Gray. The son of a billionaire. A man who was known for never tolerating mistakes.

His gaze bore into hers, and for a moment, she felt exposed-tiny, powerless, and utterly at his mercy.