My four-year-old daughter needed a heart transplant. We were fifty thousand dollars short.

Then Denys Simmons called. "Get over here and give Maureen her blood. Your daughter needs money to survive, doesn't she? I'll give you a hundred thousand."

For that money, I let them drain me until I collapsed.

When I woke, I rushed straight to my daughter's operating room—only to find the payment had never arrived.

I went to confront Denys Simmons. His response was casual, dismissive: "The daughter of a call girl deserves nothing better."

I slapped him across the face. "It seems Mr. Simmons has forgotten that night five years ago at the club."

He seized me like a man possessed. I looked him dead in the eye. "You don't deserve to know."

——

"Denise Mason's surgery is still fifty thousand short. If we can't get the funds together, we'll have to cancel tomorrow's operation." The nurse's words played on loop in my head.

Canceling was not an option. I was racking my brain for ways to scrape the money together when Denys Simmons's call came through.

I took a deep breath and answered. Before I could speak, his voice cut through—cold as a blade. "Alberta Mason. Central City Hospital. Hematology. Now. Maureen needs blood." A pause. "Your daughter needs fifty thousand to live, doesn't she? I'll give you a hundred."

Maureen Mason, Denys Simmons's fiancée, was my sister in name only—a fragile "porcelain doll" who required my blood at regular intervals to survive.

Before, the Mason family had paid me two thousand per transfusion. Now he was offering a hundred thousand. They must be desperate.

I couldn't afford to question it. Denise's surgery couldn't wait.

I grabbed the few hundred dollars I had left—just enough for a cab—and rushed to the hospital. My stomach churned, empty and acidic. The nurse frowned at my test results. "Your hemoglobin is already low. Drawing 400cc on an empty stomach—you'll pass out."

I forced a smile. "It's fine. My daughter's life depends on this."

I extended my arm. The nurse hesitated, then reluctantly inserted the needle. The cold crept up from the puncture site, spreading through my veins.

I watched the blood bag slowly fill with red, my mind fixed on one image: Denise in her hospital gown, looking up at me with those brave eyes. Mommy, I'm not scared.

The last drop drained from me. My vision went black. I hit the floor hard.

When I came to, I bolted upright and grabbed my phone, checking my balance with shaking hands.

The hundred thousand Denys Simmons had promised? Not a single cent had arrived.

I didn't wait for the dizziness to pass. Still clutching my sleeve where they'd drawn blood—the fabric wrinkled and damp—I stormed into Simmons Group headquarters.

The receptionist tried to stop me. I shoved past the glass doors and burst into the top-floor office.

Denys Simmons lounged on the leather sofa, sipping coffee. He looked at me the way someone looks at trash blown in from the street.

"Where's the money?" My voice shook. My nails bit into my palms.

He set down his cup with deliberate slowness, a mocking curve forming on his lips. "What money?"

When I just stared at him, he let out a derisive laugh. "The daughter of a call girl thinks she deserves a hundred thousand?"

Call girl.

The words seared into me like a branding iron.

Five years ago, on a night he'd clearly forgotten, I'd been forced to work as a hostess to pay for my foster mother's medical bills. That night, I stumbled upon him drugged by his cousin Wayne Simmons, barely conscious. I'd only meant to help him back to his room—but he'd pulled me in, and I couldn't break free.

When I discovered I was pregnant, I knew the gulf between us was too vast to bridge. I never told him. I raised Denise alone for four years.

And now he had the audacity to humiliate me like this.

Rage obliterated reason. My hand moved before I could think.

The slap echoed through the office. Silence crashed down like a hammer.

Denys Simmons's face flushed a mottled purple. He grabbed my wrist with the grip of a man unhinged. "You dare hit me?"

I wrenched free and met his glare, biting out each word. "It seems Mr. Simmons has forgotten that night five years ago at the club."

He went rigid. His pupils contracted sharply, as if something had struck him square in the chest.

"How do you know what happened five years ago?"

I watched the shock ripple across his face, and a flicker of dark satisfaction curled through me. Without another word, I turned and walked away, leaving only ice in my wake.

"You don't deserve to know."

The moment I stepped out of the Simmons Group building, the cold wind hit me like a slap. Only then did I notice the angry red marks circling my wrist where he'd gripped me.

My phone buzzed. A WeChat message from my foster mother, Queenie Fox:

Surgery fee paid. Don't worry.

Nine words. Just nine words—and my vision blurred with tears.

Aunt Queenie had been against me keeping Denise from the start. She'd never helped raise her, never so much as babysat. I hadn't dared tell her about Denise's illness. Asking for money? Unthinkable.

And yet here she was. The woman who pinched every penny, who'd never warmed to my daughter—she'd come through when it mattered most.

The truth was, I'd always known. Beneath Queenie's sharp tongue and cutting remarks, there was love. Rough-edged and reluctant, but real.

When I returned to the hospital, she was waiting outside Denise's room.

She thrust a thermos into my hands. "Chicken soup. Drink it while it's hot." Her tone was gruff, matter-of-fact. "Denise just got out of surgery. She's going to need you strong."

I clutched the warm container, my nose stinging. "Aunt Queenie, about the fifty thousand..."

"Not now." She cut me off, her voice harsh but her meaning soft. "Focus on Denise. The surgery went well—she can start the specialized treatment soon."

I was about to slip into the room when a nurse from Maureen's ward appeared.

"Miss Mason?" The nurse's voice was carefully neutral. "Miss Maureen Mason is requesting another blood transfusion tomorrow. She says she's feeling unwell."

My fingers tightened around the thermos until my knuckles went white.

Maureen knew. She knew I'd just given 400cc yesterday. This wasn't a request—it was a death sentence wrapped in silk.

But I couldn't refuse. Denise needed specialized medication post-surgery, and I didn't have a single dollar toward it.

The next morning, just as I was preparing for the transfusion, word came from Maureen's people: come to the Mason estate instead.

When I arrived, the housekeeper led me toward the main house. I'd barely crossed the threshold when I spotted him.

Denys Simmons. Standing at the entrance like a storm about to break.

His expression was thunderous. The moment he saw me, he closed the distance in three strides, blocking my path.

"Five years ago." His voice was low, dangerous. "You're going to explain everything. Now."

I met his gaze without flinching. "If Mr. Simmons has time to spare, perhaps spend it on your fiancée. I'm here to give her blood."

I had no intention of entertaining him. He'd made his contempt clear; I had no desire to be tangled up in his world any longer than necessary.

Before he could respond, a honeyed voice floated from inside.

"Denys, darling, don't be so hard on her." Maureen appeared in the doorway, all wounded innocence. "She's being so kind, coming all this way to help me."

The implication dripped from every syllable—as if I were some desperate creature, groveling for her approval.

I didn't bother correcting her.

I walked past them both and extended my wrist to the family physician. "Make it quick. I have a child to get back to."

The doctor had just raised the needle when Maureen suddenly lurched to her feet.

"Oh!" She let out a theatrical gasp, stumbling—no, lunging—straight toward me.

Instinct took over. I sidestepped.

She adjusted mid-fall, throwing herself toward the coffee table instead. Her elbow cracked against the sharp corner, and she crumpled with a wail, tears streaming instantly.

"Sister!" Her voice was pure wounded betrayal. "Why did you push me?!"

Denys was already moving, his long strides eating up the distance. I stepped back reflexively, certain he was coming for me—

And then my collar pulled loose.

The top button gave way, revealing the dark red birthmark just below my collarbone.

The room went deathly still.

I watched the color drain from Denys's face. His eyes locked onto that mark like it was a ghost rising from the grave. Every muscle in his body went rigid.

"It's you." The words came out fractured, disbelieving. "It's really you."

He seized my wrist—not grabbing this time, but gripping, like I might dissolve if he let go. His fingers dug in hard enough to bruise, but his eyes—his eyes were wild with something I couldn't name. Shock. Recognition. And beneath it all, a desperate, almost feverish hope.

"Five years ago. That woman—" His voice cracked. "It was you."

I tried to wrench free, but his hold was iron. Maureen scrambled up, ready to throw herself between us—

Denys shifted.

One smooth movement, and he was shielding me. His back became a wall between us.

Maureen stumbled forward, grasping at empty air, and hit the floor.

"Denys!" Her mask slipped, revealing something ugly beneath. "What are you doing? She's nobody—a bastard child! How could you humiliate me for her?"

Denys didn't release his grip. He didn't look at Maureen. His voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"Maureen, I'm only asking you once more. The night of March seventeenth, five years ago—where were you?"

That date. The exact night I'd saved him.

Maureen froze for a split second before scrambling to her feet and clutching at his trouser leg. "Denys, I was with you. Don't you remember?"

Doubt flickered behind his eyes—I saw it. But one sentence from Maureen, and it vanished. It always did. This time was no different.

Their twisted little dance wasn't something I wanted any part of.

But they had no intention of letting me walk away.

Maureen lifted her tear-glazed eyes to Denys, the picture of wounded innocence. Her voice trembled just enough to be convincing. The words that came out, though, were pure venom.

"I heard Denise's surgery was paid for by Queenie Fox." Her lips curved with false sympathy. "Money earned that way... does it sit easy when you spend it?"

She slid a glance toward Denys as she spoke. She knew exactly which buttons to push—how to make him snap.

"Our money is clean." I kept my voice steady. "But I understand. To someone with a filthy mind, everything looks dirty."

My words meant nothing to him.

Maureen's little performance had already darkened his expression, but she wasn't finished. She tugged at the hem of his jacket, her delicate face crumpling with theatrical concern.

"Denys... Denise's daughter just had surgery, but she'll need the specialty drug too." She bit her lip. "Maybe I should let her have mine first..."

What a joke.

Denys treated Maureen like spun glass. He'd spent years chasing treatments for her condition. Besides forcing me to donate blood on schedule, he'd been searching everywhere for this drug—the one her weak heart desperately needed.

Now that he'd finally secured a dose, did anyone honestly believe she'd give it up?

Denys shut her down without hesitation. "Absolutely not. You come first."

"Mr. Simmons, you can't do this." My voice cracked. "Denise can't wait—"

"And Maureen can?" His laugh was cold, cruel. "Don't make me laugh. The daughter of some escort doesn't deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as her."

The disgust on his face hit me like a slap. His words drove into my chest like poisoned needles—each one finding its mark.

I swallowed the pain. "A man with your connections can find another dose whenever he wants. Maureen won't have to wait long. I don't have that luxury. No money. No connections. Nothing."

It was the truth. He didn't want to hear it.

"There's only one dose of this drug." His tone was final. "Maureen gets it."

He pulled out his phone and dialed. When the call connected, his gaze stayed locked on mine. A smile—slow, deliberate, vicious—curled at the corner of his mouth.

"The moment the specialty drug arrives, administer it to Maureen immediately..."

"You bastard!"

I lunged for the phone.

But the height difference made it laughable. He simply lifted his arm, holding the device far out of reach while I crashed against his chest like a wave breaking on rock.

Denys looked down at me, his eyes traveling to my collar—to the skin exposed where my blouse had shifted.

Heat flooded my face. I shoved at him hard.

Behind us, Maureen's shriek pierced the air. "Denys! My chest—it's so tight—I can't breathe—"

The slightest hint of distress from her, and he was already moving. I seized the moment to push free.

"Denys Simmons." My voice shook with fury. "If you give that drug to Maureen, you will regret it."

I knew a few desperate words wouldn't change his mind.

But if I said nothing, how could I live with myself?

He didn't even acknowledge me. He was already at Maureen's side, scooping her into his arms. As he raced toward the stairs, his shoulder slammed into me.

I hit the floor hard.