Chapter 2 Expensive Mistake

~VALERIE’S POV~

I couldn't go upstairs to see Josette like this.

Not with my eyes swollen and red, mascara streaking down my cheeks like war paint. 

Not with my hands still shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone. 

And definitely not empty-handed; I'd promised her I'd bring her favourite chicken noodle soup from the deli on Fifth.

The deli would be closed by now anyway. Everything was closing. It was New Year's Eve, and the whole damn world was getting ready to celebrate while my life crumbled to dust.

I stumbled out of the hospital into the freezing December air. My coat was too thin, but I was numb to the cold. Numb to everything except the hollow ache in my chest where my heart used to be.

The subway ride home was a blur of tunnel lights and the drunk laughter of party-goers. A group of girls in sparkly dresses giggled near the door, passing around a flask. One of them caught my eye, and her smile faltered.

"You okay, honey?" she asked in a slurred but genuinely concerned voice.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. If I opened my mouth, I'd scream.

My apartment was exactly as I'd left it that morning: a tiny studio in a building that should've been condemned years ago. The radiator clanked uselessly in the corner. The faucet dripped its steady rhythm into the rust-stained sink. Home.

I dropped my keys on the counter and just stood there, staring at nothing.

Eight hundred seventy-three dollars. Five hours. Eighty-nine thousand.

The numbers looped in my head like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.

My laptop sat on my bed where I'd left it, still open to the job search sites I'd been desperately scrolling through for weeks to see if I could get a second job… as if any legitimate job would pay me ninety grand in cash by midnight.

The screen had gone to sleep, but when I touched the trackpad, it lit up. An ad banner flashed across the top of the page.

"Generous benefactors seeking companionship. Discreet. Immediate payment available."

Sugar daddies.

I'd seen these ads a thousand times, always scrolled past them with a mix of judgment and pity. Who would actually do that? Who would sell themselves like that?

But now that I stared at the ad, my finger was hovering over the mouse.

Who would do that?

Someone desperate… Someone with no other options… Someone whose baby sister was dying.

"No." I said it out loud to my empty apartment. "No, I can't… I won't."

But my finger clicked anyway.

The website was professional-looking. It featured classy photos of well-dressed men looking for "mutually beneficial arrangements". The wording was subtle and carefully chosen. There was nothing overtly explicit, just hints at "financial support" in exchange for "companionship".

There was a contact number. A text-only line for "immediate connection to available benefactors".

I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in one hand, staring at that number.

This was insane. This was degrading. This was everything I'd sworn I'd never do. But Josette was upstairs in that hospital bed, her body failing, her time running out.

What wouldn't I do for her?

I stood up, my legs weak, and walked to my closet. My hands were shaking as I pushed through the hangers, looking for… 

There. Shoved in the back, with the tags still on.

The red lacy lingerie set that my friend Katherine  had forced on me six months ago. She'd bought two sets on sale and insisted I take one. "Come on, Valerie! You never know when you'll need to feel sexy! Plus, we'll be lingerie twins!"

I'd laughed then. Told her I had no one to wear it for, shoved it in my closet and forgot about it.

The fabric felt expensive against my fingers. The bra was barely there, all lace and thin straps. The matching panties were worse, or better, depending on how you looked at it. There were even little bunny ears on a headband, because apparently Katherine  thought that was cute.

I wanted to throw up.

Instead, I quickly took off my clothes, almost as if I were on autopilot, and put on the lingerie. The lace felt uncomfortable against my skin, making me feel uneasy and out of place.

My mirror hung on the back of my bathroom door, spotted with age. I stood in front of it and barely recognised myself.

My hair fell in dark waves past my shoulders, messy from the wind and my own anxious hands running through it all day. My eyes, grey-blue, my mom used to call them "storm eyes" were bloodshot and haunted. My skin was pale, almost translucent in the harsh bathroom light.

But I could see what they would see. The curve of my waist. The swell of my breasts, barely contained by the red lace. My long and lean legs from years of running to save on subway fare.

I was pretty. I knew that, objectively, the way you know facts that don't mean anything. Pretty didn't pay for kidney transplants. Pretty didn't save your sister's life.

But maybe, tonight, it could.

I picked up my phone, positioned myself in front of the mirror. Tried to make myself look seductive instead of terrified. The bunny ears sat crooked on my head

Click.

The photo was awful to me. I looked scared. I looked like I was crying, because I was, tears streaming down my face even as I held the pose. 

But I didn't have time to retake it. It was already 7:23 PM. Four hours and thirty-seven minutes left. I knew they'd be more focused on something else… my body, rather than the fear and tears I was trying to hide. 

So I cropped my face off a bit, pulled up my messages, typed in the number from the website with shaking fingers, and attached the photo. My thumb hovered over the send button.

This was it. The moment I stopped being Valerie Snow, and became something else. Something I didn't have a name for yet.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered to my empty apartment. "I'm so sorry."

I hit send.

The photo disappeared into the void. I sat there on my bathroom floor in my humiliating bunny lingerie, phone clutched in my hand, waiting.

One minute passed. Two, then my phone buzzed.

I nearly dropped it; my hands were shaking so badly. I swiped to open the message, blinking hard to clear the tears from my vision.

But the number wasn’t right. It wasn’t the one from the Sugar Daddy website; I had it saved in my phone, a contact I had added just three days ago when I started my new job.

D. Knight.

Daniel n Knight, the CEO of Knight Enterprises, and my new boss. The man who'd barely glanced at me during my orientation, who moved through the office like a storm made flesh, who everyone whispered about in terrified tones, who gave his number as emergency only.

I'd sent the photo to Daniel n Knight.

Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

The message was three words: "My office. Now."

"No." I was talking to myself again, panicking. "No, no, no, this isn't happening."

But it was happening. The proof was right there on my screen: that terrible photo and his cold, commanding response.

I'd lost my sister… I'd lost my money, and now I might lose my job.

I wanted to curl up on that bathroom floor and never move again, wanted to let the world end without me.

But his message said now. And Daniel n Knight wasn't the kind of man you kept waiting. Plus, maybe I can plead my way out of this.

I threw on the first thing I could find: a simple black gown, and my coat over it. I didn't bother to look at myself again. What was the point?

The streets were packed with people, all of them laughing, drunk, and happy. Someone tried to hand me a party hat. Someone else blew a noisemaker in my face. The whole city was celebrating, and I was running through it like a ghost, invisible in my terror.

The Knight Enterprises tower, with its black glass and sharp edges, stood tall over the city. While most windows were dark, the top floor... his floor... shone brightly.

The lobby was bright and loud with the company's New Year's Eve party in full swing, music playing, champagne flowing, and laughter filling the air, all well-dressed and completely unaware of my situation.

I couldn't go through there… couldn't face anyone or risk someone from work seeing me like this: tear-stained and terrified, summoned to the CEO's office on New Year's Eve like some kind of criminal.

I ducked around to the back entrance, the service door employees used for deliveries. My badge worked there too, and I slipped inside, taking the back elevator.

The elevator ride felt like falling. The numbers climbed, 30, 40, 50 and my stomach dropped further with each floor. I could still hear the party below, the bass thumping through the building's bones, but it grew fainter with each passing floor.

The top floor was silent. Empty. Everyone who mattered was downstairs celebrating, and here I was, climbing toward my execution.

His office doors were massive, dark wood that probably cost more than I made in a year. They were slightly open.

My hand was still raised when I heard his deep voice from within, “Come in.”

I pushed through, my heart hammering so hard I thought I might pass out.

The office was enormous, with floor enormous windows overlooking the entire city. A desk that looked like it belonged in a museum. And there, on a huge monitor angled toward me, was my photo.

Me in red lace and bunny ears, looking what some people would call sexy, but actually looked pathetic.

"Oh God," I whispered.

"Close the door."

His deep, cold voice came from the shadows near the window. The kind of voice that made people obey without question.

I closed the door, my hands shaking so badly I almost couldn't turn the handle.

He stood with his back to me, completely still, dressed in a tuxedo that likely cost more than my yearly rent. His dark hair was styled back, and his broad shoulders were tense.

The city sparkled behind him, oblivious to my destruction.

Slowly, he turned and gestured to the monitor without looking at it. 

"Explain this."