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Amy's POV

I stood by the window, expressionless, listening to the voice on the phone, hoping the cold wind might clear my head.

The person on the other end was polite, professional, and utterly devoid of sympathy. "We're very sorry, Ms. Amy Vincent, but given your company's current financial situation, we've decided to terminate our partnership immediately. The penalty fee—three hundred and forty thousand dollars—must be paid within seven business days, or we'll be forced to pursue legal action."

My fingers tightened around the phone until the plastic casing made a cracking sound. Three hundred and forty thousand dollars. Another bill I couldn't pay. Another creditor coming for what remained of my family's legacy.

"I understand," I heard myself say, my voice steady and distant, as if someone else had taken control of my body while the real me had already collapsed somewhere deep inside. "I'll have my attorney contact you."

It was an automatic lie, the kind that slipped out when you'd spent too long pretending everything was fine. I didn't have an attorney anymore. I'd had to let her go two weeks ago.

The intercom on my desk shrilled, and before I could set down my phone, my secretary's panicked voice burst through. "Ms. Vincent, the creditors are here—they're in the lobby, they say they must see you immediately—"

"Send them up," I interrupted, my hand already moving to smooth my hair, checking my reflection in the dark computer screen. The woman staring back looked like a stranger—sunken eyes, pallid complexion, navy blue suit hanging loose where it had fit perfectly three months ago. When was the last time I'd eaten a proper meal? When was the last time I'd slept through the night without waking in cold sweats, numbers that refused to balance churning endlessly through my mind?

The intercom buzzed again. "Also, Mr. Skin's office called. He'll be arriving in thirty minutes."

Andrew Skin. The name sent an unexpected ripple through my exhaustion. Two weeks ago I'd sent an inquiry to his office—a desperate, humiliating investment request, written at three in the morning and sent before I could talk myself out of it. I hadn't expected a response. Men like Andrew Skin didn't waste time on sinking ships.

"Thank you, Jennifer." I stood, gripping the edge of the desk as the room tilted slightly. The consequences of staying up all night reviewing bankruptcy documents were catching up with me, my temples throbbing in time with my pulse, my stomach churning with nothing but black coffee and anxiety. But I couldn't show weakness. Not now. Not when I was about to face the people who had the power to strip away everything my parents had built.

The door opened and they filed in—three men in identical gray suits carrying briefcases that probably cost more than my monthly rent, but it was the woman who caught my attention. Fifties, steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, expression as cold as a spreadsheet. She settled into the chair across from my desk with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before, witnessed a hundred desperate people grasping at a hundred final straws.

"Ms. Vincent." She didn't offer her hand. "I'm Catherine Rivers, representing the creditor consortium for Vincent Logistics Group. I assume you know why we're here."

I gestured for Jennifer to leave, waiting until the door clicked shut before responding. "I assume you're here to discuss a payment plan."

"I'm here to inform you there won't be a payment plan." She extracted a document from her briefcase, sliding it across my desk with the precision of a surgeon making an incision. "Our assessment is complete. Your company currently holds debts totaling twelve million, four hundred and seventy thousand dollars, with liquidatable assets of approximately six hundred and thirty thousand. Under Chapter Seven bankruptcy provisions, we'll begin asset liquidation within seventy-two hours."

Twelve million, four hundred and seventy thousand. Six hundred and thirty thousand. Seventy-two hours.

The numbers demolished the last shred of hope I'd been clutching. I stared at the document—pages of dense legal text that might as well have been in a foreign language—trying to remember how to breathe.

"I still have real estate," I said, my voice smaller than I'd intended. "My parents' house, my apartment, and—"

"Already mortgaged to First National Bank of Silverton," she said without even glancing at her notes. "And even if sold, the proceeds wouldn't cover a third of your outstanding debts. Ms. Vincent, you need to accept reality. You're bankrupt. Your company cannot be saved. Delaying this process will only accumulate more fees."

The words hit like hammer blows, but I forced myself to stay upright, keeping my spine straight, my hands steady on the desk. "There has to be a way. I can find a way, please, just give me more time—"

"There isn't." For the first time, something flickered in Catherine Rivers' eyes—not sympathy, but a cold assessment, like she was calculating how much pressure I could withstand before breaking completely. "Unless you have undisclosed assets or a wealthy patron willing to absorb twelve million dollars in debt, this meeting is merely a formality."

"Then why come?" The question came out sharper than I'd intended, edged with three months of swallowed anger. "If it's already decided, why waste the time?"

"Professional courtesy." She leaned back in her chair, and the way she looked at me—slow, appraising, like pricing merchandise for sale—raised goosebumps along my arms. "And to give you one last chance to... negotiate alternative arrangements."

The air in the room changed. The men behind her shifted almost imperceptibly, and I caught a smirk on one of their faces. My stomach dropped.

"I don't understand what you mean by alternative arrangements." But I did understand. I understood completely, and the understanding made bile rise in my throat.

Catherine waved her hand and the three men left my office without a word, the soft click of the door closing behind them sounding like a cell locking. She stood, moving around my desk with deliberate slowness, and I found myself backing up until my spine hit the bookshelf behind me.

"You're a smart woman, Ms. Vincent. I'm sure you can figure it out." She stopped just close enough that I could smell her perfume—something expensive and cloying. "I still have connections in the medical field. If you're willing to sign this voluntary donation contract, your blood, your kidneys, even your uterus can serve a purpose. As long as you're willing, you'll receive a substantial sum that will keep you from being completely destitute."

The words took several seconds to penetrate my brain, and when they did, the impact was so severe I couldn't breathe. "You're talking about live organ trafficking—"

"I'm offering you a solution." Her voice maintained perfect calm, as if we were discussing a corporate merger rather than a proposition that made every cell in my body scream. "You sign the medical authorization. I handle the arrangements. I guarantee you'll walk away alive with enough money to start over. Very simple."

Rage erupted through my exhaustion like gasoline meeting flame. I pushed past her, grabbed the door handle, my only thought to get her out of my office, out of my sight—

The door wouldn't budge. Through the frosted glass panel, I could see a shadow—one of the men who'd left earlier, standing directly outside, blocking the exit.

"I told you," Catherine said softly behind me, "my associates are very thorough."

I spun around, my back pressed against the door. "This is illegal. You can't—I'll report you, I'll call the police—"

"With what evidence?" She took a step closer, and I noticed for the first time how her manicured nails resembled talons. "A desperate bankrupt making wild accusations against respected creditors? Who do you think they'll believe?"

My hand slid along the wall toward my desk, toward my phone. If I could just reach it, hit the emergency button—

"Don't." Her voice was sharp, final, and before I could react, she closed the distance between us, her hand shooting out to grab my wrist. "You had your chance to be smart. To accept help gracefully."

I wrenched my arm free, stumbling backward. "This isn't help, it's—"

She slammed me face-first into the wall beside my desk, pain exploding across my scalp from the force. The impact sent white stars across my vision, and before I could recover, her forearm pressed against the back of my neck, pinning me in place with a strength no woman her age should possess.

"You stupid little bitch." Her voice was no longer calm, no longer professional. "You think you still have choices? You think anyone cares what happens to you?" She pressed my face harder against the wall and I felt something warm trickling down from my hairline. "You're nothing. A bankrupt nobody with no prospects, no future, parents already dead and gone. I'm offering you mercy and you reject it out of pathetic fear—"

I tried to struggle free, but three months of insomnia and barely eating had left me weak as a kitten. My arms trembled with effort, my vision blurred, my lungs burned as her weight crushed my ribs against the wall. I was going to die like this—beaten to death in my own office by a creditor while my secretary cowered outside and no one came to help—

The door burst open.

Wood splintered, the doorframe giving a gunshot crack, and suddenly Catherine's weight disappeared. I slid down the wall, gasping for air, my legs unable to support my weight. Through eyes blurred with involuntary tears, I saw him.

Andrew Skin stood in the doorway, looking nothing like the polished businessman from the Forbes profile I'd memorized. His perfectly tailored suit jacket was gone, shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms revealing corded muscle, and his silver-gray eyes—

They weren't gray anymore. They were gold. Bright, burning gold, fixed on Catherine Rivers with a look that suggested he might tear the entire room apart.

"Let. Her. Go." Each word was bitten off clearly, quiet but absolute.