Chapter 5

Evelyn

I stood at the edge of the hospital's first-floor corridor, my palms already slick with cold sweat. Only when that tall, upright figure crossed the lobby and vanished through the automatic doors did the tension in my nerves finally ease.

This was insane.

Never in a thousand years would I have imagined that the man who'd been with me in that dim room the night before would show up here today—as the head of the Whitmore Foundation, no less.

Those few brief minutes of conversation had nearly drained every ounce of my self-control. Leaning against the wall, I replayed the exchange over and over in my mind, dissecting every word, every detail.

When I'd said "thank you," had my voice trembled? Had he caught even a flicker of something off in my rattled reaction? Each thought was like a dull blade, sawing away at my composure.

But when I thought it through, there'd been nothing strange in the way he'd looked at me. To him, I was probably just an ordinary family member—frazzled over a mother's serious illness, who'd happened to bump into him outside the pharmacy.

I forced myself upright, rubbed my stiff cheeks hard, and pushed every emotion back down. Only then did I turn and head for the elevator.

When I pushed open the door to Room 302, my mother was propped against the headboard, reading.

Seeing me come in, she took off her reading glasses and looked at me, puzzled. "Evelyn? Why did picking up medication take so long? I just heard the nurses say some very important donor was downstairs."

"It was nothing." I managed a smile as ordinary as any other, walking over to set the freshly purchased medicine on the nightstand. "I happened to run into the head of the Whitmore Foundation in the hallway, so we chatted for a bit."

"Whitmore?" She sat up a little. "You mean the Whitmore family that's been funding our medical center all this time?"

"Mm. That's him."

I didn't dare meet her eyes. Head down, I began sorting the boxes of medicine on the table—taking them out, organizing them, checking the dosages. I forced my attention onto these mechanical tasks, terrified she might read something in my face.

I couldn't bear to imagine how my mother would fall apart if she knew what had happened the night before—if she knew that the steady supply of medication flowing into her room and the specialist team about to be assembled had all been bought with my body and my dignity.

"You look terrible, sweetheart." She reached out and gently took hold of my wrist.

"Just tired from last night's shift." I patted the back of her hand, turning her concern around to comfort her instead. "Don't worry. The doctor says all your numbers are improving. Just focus on the treatment ahead and leave everything else to me."

She studied me, a flicker of ache in her eyes. In the end she asked nothing more—only sighed, and lay back down to rest.

Once she'd fallen asleep, the room went quiet, leaving only the steady beep of the monitors. I slipped down to the window at the end of the corridor, pulled out my phone, and opened my banking app.

The screen refreshed, and there it was in the transaction history—a staggering string of figures. It was the treatment advance Victoria had promised me, enough to cover every round of my mother's targeted tumor therapy and specialist consultations to come.

Over these past few days, I'd told myself again and again that this was nothing more than a business contract, a transaction with a price tag attached. I sold my body, they paid the astronomical medical bills, and once I conceived a child and collected the money, all of it would be over.

But today's chance encounter at the hospital had shattered the psychological defenses I'd worked so hard to build.

The man who'd controlled everything in that bed had shown a completely different side of himself in the light of day.

He carried none of the aggressive arrogance you'd expect from an heir to a great fortune. When he'd heard I'd put my psychology studies on hold because of my mother's illness, he'd even asked—earnestly—whether I intended to return to school someday.

The sheer contradiction of it struck me as absurd. If he'd simply been cold and brutal, I could at least have justified seeing him as the source of my suffering. But he was flawlessly decent, without a single fault I could seize on. That well-bred courtesy landed like a blow to the head, leaving me utterly at a loss.

Lost in these thoughts, I felt my phone buzz. A new message flashed on the screen. The sender was Victoria.

I hear from the hospital that you ran into Alexander today?

The sight of that name sent my spine rigid; my heart skipped half a beat. I pushed down the panic and typed rapidly:

Yes, I bumped into him outside the pharmacy. We exchanged a few words—he asked about my mother's condition and what I'd studied.

A few seconds passed before Victoria replied:

No need to be nervous, darling. Alexander meets far too many people every day. To him you're just another family member, nothing more. He never even saw your face in that bedroom—there's no possible way he'd connect you to last night.

Reading those lines, I let out a long breath, and the knot in my chest loosened a little. But before I could steady myself, a second message popped up:

The doctor has just reviewed your cycle. The next appointment is set. Get ready—the agreement needs to continue.

In that instant, a chill spread through my whole body. Without giving me any time to recover, reality had laid itself out before me again, raw and bloody.

Half an hour later, an unknown number sent a curt itinerary. It was Victoria's private driver.

Ms. Carter, per the arrangement, a car will pick you up at the hospital's rear entrance this Wednesday at eight o'clock sharp, to take you to the Manhattan penthouse. Please be ready in advance.

I stared at the word "Wednesday" and couldn't tear my eyes away for a long time.

Today was already Monday. Which meant that in less than forty-eight hours, I would walk back into that dim bedroom, and once again lie beneath that man.

At the thought, my stomach clenched, wave after wave. I leaned against the wall and slowly closed my eyes.

I didn't know what frame of mind I was supposed to face Alexander in come Wednesday night—whether to see him as the untouchable benefactor of the agreement, the man who held my mother's life and death in his hands, or as the Alexander Whitmore from that afternoon at the hospital, the one who'd listened to me carefully and wished me a swift return to school.

But no matter which one he was, no matter how tangled my emotions became, at eight o'clock on Wednesday night I would have to walk into that room, right on time.

The sky gradually darkened, storm clouds stacking layer upon layer over Manhattan. I put away my phone, straightened my clothes, and pushed open the door to the hospital room once more.