Trapped By The Billionaire Doctor's Debt

Emilia opened her eyes to the dim light of the hotel suite. The immediate, sharp tearing sensation between her legs made her gasp. She sucked in a harsh breath, her lungs burning as the heavy scent of alcohol and sweat filled her nose.

She tried to push herself up. The silk blanket slipped, exposing her bare shoulders covered in dark red marks. Fragments of last night's frantic, suffocating weight crashed into her skull. Her stomach churned violently.

She turned her head. Across the massive, messy bed, a tall man stood with his back to her, silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He was slowly, methodically fastening the silver cufflinks of his tailored shirt. At the sound of her sharp intake of air, his hands stopped.

Clifton turned around. His deep, cold eyes pierced through the morning shadows, locking directly onto her.

The sheer aggression in his stare made Emilia's skin prickle. Panic seized her throat. She instinctively grabbed the slipping blanket and yanked it up to her collarbone, gripping the fabric so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Clifton watched her defensive movement. A cruel, mocking smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. He took slow, deliberate steps toward the bed.

He stood over her, looking down. There was no trace of the heat from last night in his eyes. It was a pure, calculating assessment. He was looking at a product.

Emilia's whole body trembled under his gaze. But the image of her father lying in the hospital, waiting for the surgery fee, flashed behind her eyes. She forced her chin up, meeting his terrifying stare.

She bit her lower lip hard. "The money," she said, her voice raspy but stubborn. "You promised ten thousand dollars as a deposit for passing your 'interview' for the egg retrieval."

Clifton's eyes instantly dropped in temperature. A muscle feathered in his jaw. He despised women like this-women who would sell themselves to the darkest corners of the city for a paycheck.

He leaned down. His long, cold fingers clamped around her jaw, forcing her head up so she couldn't look away.

"Your performance last night," he said, his voice a low, magnetic rumble that vibrated against her skin, "was not worth the price you are asking."

Heat rushed to Emilia's face, burning her cheeks. Tears of pure humiliation pricked her eyes, but she clamped her teeth together, refusing to let them fall.

She jerked her face away, slapping his hand off her jaw. "This was a transaction!" she yelled, her chest heaving. "You have to keep your word. I need that ten thousand."

At the number, the mockery in Clifton's eyes deepened. He straightened his posture and casually adjusted his silk tie.

He reached into the inside pocket of his expensive suit jacket and pulled out a sleek, custom-embossed checkbook. With a gold fountain pen, he quickly scrawled a pathetic number, tore the slip of paper free, and let the check drop.

It fluttered down like a piece of trash, landing on the nightstand right next to her pillow.

"That is your actual market value," he said coldly. "One hundred dollars. Not a penny more."

Emilia stared at the piece of paper. Her lungs stopped working. It felt like he had just stomped on her chest with a steel-toed boot. Her entire body shook with a violent, uncontrollable rage.

She snatched the check in her fist and threw it as hard as she could right at his chest.

The paper hit his expensive suit and fluttered to the carpet. Clifton's eyes darkened into something incredibly dangerous.

Emilia was mindless of her nakedness. Scrambling hastily off the far side of the bed, she snatched up her crumpled clothes from the floor and dressed in a frenzy.

She didn't even glance in his direction. She bolted for the suite door, wrenched it open, and fled.

The sound of her frantic, desperate footsteps echoed down the corridor until they faded into silence.

Clifton stood rooted to the spot. He stared at the closed door. His jaw was clenched tight, churning with a sudden, inexplicable wave of irritation.

He looked down, bending to retrieve the crumpled check. His thumb rubbed unconsciously against the paper's sharp edge.

A draft caught the heavy door, slamming it shut with a bang. The lock clicked loudly.

Slowly, Clifton walked back to the bed. He looked down. Against the pristine white sheets, a dark red stain stood out in stark contrast.

His pupils contracted sharply. His chest tightened.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cheap, black disposable phone. The screen was still open to the black-market egg donation hotline from last night. He stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the glass.

Clifton held the black disposable phone tightly. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring down at the busy morning traffic of New York City. His eyes were dark, calculating.

He stared at the screen, his dark eyes fixed on the disconnected number. His brow furrowed deeply as a cold, calculating thought crossed his mind. The criminal ring behind this number must be found and completely dismantled. The sudden sharp ring of the suite's doorbell broke his focus. Clifton shoved the burner phone into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

He walked over and pulled the door open. Bedford Joseph stood in the hallway, holding two cups of black coffee, a teasing grin on his face.

Bedford walked right past him into the room without waiting for an invitation. His eyes swept over the rumpled bed, and he let out a loud, obnoxious whistle.

"Never thought I'd see the day the hospital's biggest workaholic spent the night in a hotel," Bedford joked, shoving a coffee cup into Clifton's chest.

Clifton ignored the joke. He took a sip of the scalding coffee. "Give me the update on the hospital's sting operation," he demanded, his voice flat.

Bedford dropped the smile. His face turned dead serious. "The interns messed up the sting operation yesterday."

Bedford paced the floor, explaining that the black-market egg retrieval ring they were tracking was incredibly elusive. "They specifically target desperate college girls who need cash fast," Bedford said.

"The surgical risks are a death sentence," Bedford continued, his voice grim. "They operate in basements. No anesthesia. The girls usually hemorrhage. If they survive, they're sterile for life. Most of them just bleed out on the table."

Clifton's fingers tightened around his paper coffee cup. The cardboard buckled under his grip. His knuckles turned stark white. The image of Emilia's pale, stubborn face flashed in his mind.

His stomach dropped. Emilia was the prey. She was going to put herself on that basement operating table.

Bedford stopped pacing and looked closely at Clifton. "Did you find a lead?" he asked, noticing the sudden tension radiating from his friend.

Clifton kept his face completely blank. To protect her privacy, he shook his head. "No," he lied smoothly.

As soon as Bedford left the suite, Clifton walked over to the sofa and sat down heavily. He pulled out his personal smartphone and dialed his assistant.

"Find every bank account linked to that black-market agency," Clifton ordered, his tone absolute and aggressive. "Now."

He hung up and pulled the black burner phone back out. He opened the text messages from last night. Emilia's desperate pleas for medical money filled the screen. Every word felt like a physical needle jabbing into his brain.

Clifton yanked at his tie, loosening it violently. He didn't want to get involved. But the thought of that girl bleeding to death on a filthy table made his chest physically ache. He couldn't just let it happen.

He walked into the bathroom and stared at his cold reflection in the mirror. He had to stop her, and he had to use the only language she currently understood.

He typed a message to her number on the burner phone. His thumbs hit the keys with brutal force.

"Stop contacting any other buyers immediately. If you do, I will hold you legally and financially responsible for your breach of contract last night."

He hit send. He tossed the phone onto the marble sink, turned around, grabbed his coat, and walked out.

Across the city, in the university architecture studio, Emilia sat frozen in front of her drafting board. Her face was the color of chalk. Her eyes were empty.

Her phone vibrated violently against the wood desk. She jumped, her heart slamming against her ribs. She scrambled to grab it.

She stared at the screen. It was the unsaved number. The threat glared back at her. Her hands began to shake so badly she nearly dropped the device.

He was extorting her. The sick, twisted buyer from last night wasn't done with her. A suffocating wave of terror crashed over her head.

She tapped the screen, trying to type a reply, trying to beg him to leave her alone. But her fingers were completely stiff. She couldn't form a single word. She slammed the phone face down on the desk, gasping for air.

The studio door pushed open. Her roommate, Paige Sawyer, walked in. Paige stopped, looking at Emilia's terrified face. "Are you sick?" Paige asked, alarmed.

Emilia forced the corners of her mouth up in a sickeningly fake smile. She shook her head. But beneath her ribs, her heart beat like a trapped bird. She knew she had just provoked a monster she could never escape.

Emilia stared at the black back of her phone on the drafting table. Her stomach twisted into tight, painful knots. She couldn't breathe.

Paige handed her a paper cup of water. "Are you in trouble?" Paige asked softly. Emilia quickly looked away, staring at the floorboards to hide the panic in her eyes.

Suddenly, her phone rang. The loud, piercing ringtone made her flinch. The screen lit up with her mother's name: Delphia Price.

Emilia grabbed the phone and bolted out of the studio. She ran into the concrete stairwell, hiding in the dark corner, and pressed answer.

"Did you get the money?!" Delphia's shrill, hysterical scream pierced right through the speaker, stabbing Emilia in the ear.

Delphia didn't wait for an answer. She sobbed and yelled, her voice echoing off the concrete walls. "The hospital gave us the final notice! If we don't pay today, they are throwing your father out of the room! He will die in the street!"

"Mom, I ran into a problem-" Emilia choked out, her throat tight.

"I don't want to hear your excuses!" Delphia shrieked. "You are useless! You are letting him die!"

The vicious words sliced into Emilia's chest like a serrated blade. Her knees gave out. She slid down the freezing concrete wall until she hit the floor. Hot tears spilled over her eyelashes, dropping silently onto her jeans.

The call abruptly disconnected. The dial tone buzzed in her ear. The weight of the entire world pressed down on her shoulders, crushing her lungs.

Her phone vibrated again. A new text from the burner number. It was an address. A high-end penthouse in Manhattan.

A second text popped up immediately after: "Be here at 8 PM for your medical screening. Or face the consequences."

Emilia stared at the words medical screening. Her blood ran cold. He was the middleman. He was going to force her into the pre-op exam for the egg harvesting.

Her fingers hovered over the keypad to dial 911. But the image of her father, pale and dying on a hospital bed, flashed in her mind.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood.

She had to get that money. She opened her map app and saved the address.

At 7:50 PM, Emilia stood on the sidewalk outside the towering, glass-fronted luxury building. She wore a cheap, oversized gray hoodie, trying to make herself look as small as possible.

She took a deep, shaky breath and walked into the freezing air-conditioning of the lobby. The security guard looked her up and down with harsh, judging eyes.

She gave him the room number. The guard's posture instantly changed to extreme respect. He swiped a keycard, opening a private elevator that went straight to the top floor.

The elevator shot upward. The sudden loss of gravity made Emilia's stomach heave. Her palms were slick with cold sweat.

The doors dinged open. She stepped out into a dimly lit hallway covered in thick, expensive carpet. Every step felt like walking barefoot on broken glass. She stopped in front of the massive, black double doors.

Her hand shook violently as she reached out and pressed the doorbell.

A low buzz sounded. A second later, the heavy lock clicked open automatically.

Emilia pushed the heavy door and stepped into the entryway. A blast of cold air mixed with the faint, expensive scent of cedar and tobacco hit her face.

The living room was dark. Clifton stood with his back to her, pouring a drink at the wet bar. He wore a black silk shirt that clung to his broad shoulders.

Hearing her footsteps, he turned around. He swirled the amber liquid in his crystal glass.

His eyes locked onto her shivering frame standing by the door. He looked at her like a predator watching a trapped rabbit.

"Come here," he ordered, his voice cold and flat.