The hospital corridors were eerily quiet at three in the morning, the faint hum of fluorescent lights echoing off the polished floors. Outside, the city slept, but inside, Clara's heart raced uncontrollably. She ran down the hallway, tears streaking her cheeks, chasing after the man who should have been her protector—her father, Jonathan.
"Dad, please! You have to help—Mom is dying! You have to save her!" Clara's voice cracked, desperation choking her words.
Jonathan, a man whose hands had always felt cold and distant, paused and looked at her with a mixture of irritation and detachment. "Clara… she's beyond saving," he said bluntly, attempting to pull his arm free.
"No! The doctor said the surgery could save her! It only costs a hundred thousand! Please, Dad! I'll do anything—you have to help!" Clara clutched his arm, her small hands trembling, as if her grip alone could force him to relent.
Jonathan hesitated. His eyes swept over her tear-streaked face, taking in the soft vulnerability and quiet determination she had inherited from her mother. After a long, tense moment, he drew in a slow breath. "Clara," he said, his voice low and measured, "I can help your mother… but there's a condition."
"Anything! I'll do anything!" she whispered, almost collapsing under the weight of fear and hope.
"I know you're a good girl," Jonathan continued. "You've heard about your older sister, Victoria, and her engagement to Lucas Harrington, haven't you?"
Clara nodded, though she still didn't understand where this was heading. "Yes…" Her throat tightened, anxiety coiling around her like a snake.
Jonathan's eyes darkened slightly. "Lucas has… standards. He only marries women he considers suitable. Victoria… she's no longer eligible in that way. I want you to take her place."
The words hit Clara like a thunderbolt. Her body stiffened, and she shook her head, trembling. "Dad… I can't!"
Jonathan's grip on her arm tightened, firm but not cruel. "This is the only way to save your mother. If you agree, I'll transfer the money immediately. The surgery is urgent. Miss the window, and it will be too late."
Clara's chest heaved as her mind raced. The choice seemed impossible, the stakes unbearable. Her mother's frail image flashed through her mind—pale, fragile, and fighting for life. With a shuddering breath, she whispered, "Okay… I'll do it."
"Good girl," Jonathan said, patting her shoulder with a brief, unnatural tenderness. "Dress nicely. Tomorrow night… it's your turn. Don't worry. Lucas… he is highly desirable. Every young woman in this city dreams of being with him."
Clara sank into the nearest chair, her mind spinning. Her body felt drained, yet a small spark of relief flickered in her chest. At least her mother's life might be spared. That thought, fragile and trembling, was her only comfort.
---
By the next evening, the grand suite of the Whitmore Hotel awaited her. The room was dimly lit, shadows stretching across plush furniture. Clara's hands shook as she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to steady her racing heart. She was alone, utterly unprepared for the events that were about to unfold.
The door creaked open. A tall, imposing figure stepped inside, cutting a striking silhouette in the darkness. He moved to switch on the lights, but the bulb flickered and failed, leaving the room shrouded in shadows.
Clara's mind spun. She had rehearsed this countless times, yet the reality was far more overwhelming. She stepped forward cautiously, trembling, and reached out instinctively. Her hands found his shoulders as she rose on tiptoe and planted a timid kiss on his cheek—a gesture awkward and uncertain, but driven by a desperate hope.
Before she could retreat, a heavy hand gripped the back of her head, pulling her forward. A strong, intoxicating scent of alcohol and masculinity overwhelmed her senses. His lips met hers in the darkness, taking over her thoughts, her breath, her very being.
Her mind went blank. Panic and confusion collided, a dizzying storm of emotions. She struggled, but his strength was overwhelming. The room was filled with the sound of muffled cries and the pounding of her heart, caught between terror and helplessness.
Tears streamed down Clara's face. She clawed at the sheets, at his shoulders, at anything to anchor herself to reality. She felt trapped, a pawn in a cruel game dictated by circumstance and desperation.
Yet through the darkness, a stubborn spark of hope remained. Her mother's life was still in her hands. Despite the fear and shame, the choice she had made might still secure her mother a future. That thought, small and fragile, became her anchor.
For Clara, it was enough—for now.
---