Chapter 1

I'd only gone to see Mirasol—Jimmy's step-sister—to collect a debt she owed me. That was all it had been. Yet the next day, Jimmy hurled a heavy ledger at my chest with such force it clattered to the floor, as though it carried the weight of the world.

"Pick it up," he said, his voice cold as steel, the tone one reserves for something beneath contempt. "Read every page."

My hands trembled as I knelt to retrieve it. Something told me nothing good waited inside.

When I opened it, the words blurred before my eyes. It was a full accounting of everything he'd spent on me across five years together. A couture gown worth fifty thousand dollars. A rare, limited-edition car he'd once dismissed as "just a little something." Diamonds, private island trips, five-star suites, chartered yachts. Even the smallest details hadn't escaped him—a shared dessert, late-night wine, flowers I'd once believed meant something more.

All documented. All priced down to the cent.

Even our nights in hotels. Even the clothes from my own closet.

My grip tightened until my knuckles ached. Was this truly all I had ever been to him?

"I'll be generous," Jimmy said, leaning back, unbothered, swirling his wine. "We'll split the hotel costs evenly. I'm not unreasonable."

Generous. The word nearly stuck in my throat.

"Subtract the fifty thousand Mirasol owes you," he continued, finally meeting my eyes—sharp, unfeeling—"and you still owe me fifty-two million. One month. Wire it."

Fifty-two million.

My mouth opened, but nothing came at first. "Jimmy, I never asked you for any of this. You gave it to me, I never—"

"Never what?" he cut in, quieter than shouting, yet somehow worse. "Never enjoyed it? Never accepted it?"

"That's not what I meant, I just—" I stopped, throat tight. "I thought things were different than this."

"Then tell me how you thought they were," he pressed, his stare unrelenting. "Say it plainly, Iris. Unless you don't even remember what you believed."

I had no answer.

What had I believed? That he loved me? That every gift was affection, not debt quietly accumulating interest?

A laugh broke the silence.

"Poor Iris—turns out Jimmy keeps receipts for everything," someone said, clearly amused. "Does she even understand what fifty million means?"

Another voice, sharper this time: "Of course not. She was just warming his bed and playing house. She actually thought she'd won something."

Laughter spread through the room.

My ears rang with it.

"Honestly," another man drawled, eyes dragging over me, "fifty-two million is nothing. Iris, if you keep me company tonight and do it well, I might give you sixty instead. Simple enough, isn't it?"

More laughter.

I felt myself shrinking, the air thinning until I could barely breathe.

Jimmy didn't intervene. He didn't even look irritated.

"Not my concern," he said lightly. "However she raises the money is her own business."

Something inside me cracked.

"Jimmy," I said, my voice barely audible. "I never humiliated Mirasol. She lied to you. I would never do that. Why would you think—"

"Why wouldn't you?" he countered, tilting his head with something like curiosity. "Do you really want to revisit that?"

Ice spread through me.

The memories surfaced, each crueler than the last. After Mirasol returned from abroad, I'd been a few minutes late preparing her meal—the food itself had been perfectly fine. Jimmy's response was to lock me outside for three days, no food, no water. I remembered huddling on the frozen ground, trembling, wondering if I'd lose consciousness before it ended.

The second time, her tablet slipped from my hands by accident. Jimmy had someone seize me for it; my arm ended up in a cast, too painful to lift without tears.

The third time, I hadn't done anything at all—I'd simply been quietly grieving. Mirasol forced me to dress up and perform in front of her friends like some spectacle. I'd nearly collapsed that night, and no one had stopped it.

All I'd wanted was the fifty thousand Mirasol begged me for—money meant for my father's treatment. She'd wept, sworn she had nowhere else to turn, promised to repay every cent. And this was the result.

Dragged in front of everyone. Degraded. Stripped of dignity.

"Iris," Jimmy said, his voice like a chain pulling tight around my throat. "Fail to pay on time, and I'll see you in court. You won't survive that."

My legs threatened to give out.

The thought of my father in that hospital bed, machines breathing for him, bills mounting like they meant to bury us both, forced a smile onto my face—wrong, unnatural, as though it belonged to someone else.

I turned to the man beside Jimmy. "If I... if I keep you satisfied tonight, will you really give me the fifty-two million?"

The room stilled. Then his face lit up like he'd won something.

"Absolutely," he said, leaning in, his gaze crawling over me. "Fifty-two million is nothing. But you'll have to earn it, won't you?"

He glanced at Jimmy for confirmation.

Jimmy offered no objection—just sat there, swirling his drink, watching me like I was furniture.

That silence was all the permission the man needed.

"Waiter," he called, snapping his fingers. "Thirty glasses. Make them strong."

My stomach dropped. Thirty.

The bottles arrived quickly, lined up before me like a sentence I couldn't escape.

"Finish every glass tonight, down to the last drop, and the money transfers immediately. No tricks. My word."

My fingers curled. Could I survive this? Did it matter anymore?

I lifted the first glass without letting myself think.

The moment it hit my throat, it burned—tore through me like it was ripping me open from within. My stomach convulsed violently; I nearly choked, tears stinging my eyes.

I forced it down anyway.

Keep going. You can't stop now.

Their laughter reached me from every side. I could feel their stares—disgust, amusement, curiosity. His most of all.

But I couldn't look at Jimmy.

So I kept drinking. Glass after glass.

My hands shook, my vision swam, cold sweat soaked through my back. Eventually I couldn't taste anything anymore—only pain, raw and endless.

Why was I still doing this?

Because there was no other choice. Because I needed the money. Because without it, my father would—

No. I couldn't finish that thought.

I drained the last glass and set it down hard. The room tilted around me, my skull throbbing like it might split.

Somehow I straightened, even as my knees threatened to buckle. I extended my hand toward the man.

"The... money," I managed, voice scraped raw. "You said you'd give it to me."

He didn't answer right away, turning to Jimmy with a smirk. "Jimmy, should I pay her? She earned it, didn't she?"

Jimmy regarded me for a moment. "Give it to her. It's only fifty-two million. Call it charity."

Charity. That word landed harder than anything else that night.

The man laughed and tossed a bank card to the floor near my feet. "There. Don't say I'm not generous."

I bent to retrieve it, fingers unsteady. I offered no thanks.

I simply turned and left as fast as my legs would carry me, nearly running.

My father. This money would finally make his surgery possible.

He would survive this. He had to.

**

By the time I reached the hospital and settled the remaining bill, my hands still hadn't stopped shaking. I hurried to find the doctor, words tumbling out unevenly.

"The payment's gone through. Please—start the treatment now. Please save him."

The doctor's expression shifted the instant he looked at me, and something in it made my chest seize.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Iris. Mr. Jimmy ordered that all treatment for your father be stopped. It isn't something we can override."