Chapter 6

A flash of guilt washed over Jeremy, hushing him for a moment.

But Ethan, who had been sitting back in calm silence, finally spoke up, his voice measured and deliberate. "You broke Jeremy's glass. Aren't you going to clean it up for him?"

A subtle smile touched his eyes as he leaned back, waiting to watch the show.

I scrambled to my knees, frantically picking up the shattered pieces. The jagged edges sliced into my skin, covering my hands in blood.

In a daze, my mind flashed back to years ago, when I had stomped on Ethan's hand. It had been covered in blood just like this.

I knew Ethan would make me pay for everything from back then. Every last drop.

Maybe if I gave him what he wanted and put him in a better mood, he'd finally let me go—and Eleanor and I might still have a future.

I cleared away the last of the glass and tried to stand.

Before I could, a cold drink was dumped over my head without warning, instantly blurring my vision.

My head spun violently. Through the haze, I forced myself to look up.

Ethan was sitting right beside me, holding the freshly emptied glass.

It was just like years ago at that dinner party, when I had poured wine over his head to the cheers of the crowd.

My dizziness worsened, making it almost impossible to stand.

As my sight dimmed, I caught the cruel curl of Ethan's lips.

"Just returning the favor," he murmured, his voice low. "Claire, what's owed must be repaid. Wouldn't you say?"

He had said those exact words to me before.

I knew what he was doing—he was reminding me.

Reminding me of the night I fell off the cliff, reminding me that sooner or later, my life belonged to him.

The red wine trickled down my neck, soaking into my clothes.

I grabbed the back of a chair, using every ounce of strength to haul myself upright, my mind a foggy mess.

It wasn't until I felt the strange, lingering gazes of the men around the table that reality snapped back into focus. My thin summer clothes were drenched through.

Heat rushed to my face, and I instinctively crossed my arms over my chest.

The men broke into a round of crude laughter, their eyes lingering with unsettling intent.

Ethan's expression turned thunderous, twisted with disgust—perhaps at the sight of me.

He slammed his wine glass onto the table with a deafening crash.

The glass exploded into fragments, and the abrupt sound cut the laughter dead. The filthy stares vanished in an instant.

Ethan's eyes were bloodshot, his jaw tight as he spat through gritted teeth, "Get the hell out!"

Shaking violently, I turned and stumbled out of the room.

I burst into the bathroom and collapsed over the sink.

The metallic taste in my throat surged, and I couldn't stop myself from vomiting blood.

I turned on the faucet with a shaking hand and reached into my pocket for my painkillers.

My fingers found nothing. Then I remembered—the bottle, along with my diagnosis report, was probably still in Ethan's car.

An agonizing, searing pain ripped through my abdomen and brain, like knives slicing through my insides.

Alexander's words echoed in my head: "End-stage liver failure. You have six months at most."

Illness strikes like a landslide. It seemed my time was truly running out.

I didn't care much about saving my own skin, but Eleanor was still lying in that hospital bed.

If I left this world, what would become of her?

Footsteps approached outside the bathroom.

I leaned heavily over the sink, gasping for air, until Ethan walked in and grabbed my shoulder, hauling me upright.

Looking up, I finally saw my reflection in the mirror—pale-faced, with reddened eyes, a wine-stained top, and damp, matted hair clinging to my face. I looked like a disaster.

Ethan's face remained dark as he dragged me out of the bathroom.

He let out a cold sneer. "With that pitiful act, people might actually think you're selling yourself."

The searing pain made every instinct in me want to plead, to explain.

But when I raised my eyes, I caught sight of Emily standing right behind him.

Her expression was gentle, yet her eyes held a threat that only I could read.

For the past two years, she had always known that Eleanor was in the nursing home.

I pulled my gaze back and looked at Ethan, forcing a slight curl of my lips. "Then are you buying, Mr. Pierce?"

Ethan clearly hadn't expected me to be so brazen.

He froze for a moment, his brow furrowing in disgust. "Get out of here with me. Who are you trying to nauseate looking like that?"

He reached out to grab me again, but I dodged his hand.

My eyes stung as I smiled. "I don't just leave with anyone for free. My price is high—it'll cost you this much."

Swallowing the metallic taste of blood in my throat, I raised a single index finger.

Ethan's expression darkened further. "One thousand for one night? You really know how to do business, Claire."

"No," I smiled. "One million."

Ethan's face went completely dark.

I knew better than anyone what he hated most, and I was betting that in the next second, he would lose his temper and walk away.

Emily looked thoroughly satisfied with my performance; the threat in her eyes dissolved.

But then, Ethan suddenly burst out laughing.

A terrible sense of foreboding washed over me.

Sure enough, he immediately sent a text to summon his assistant, Daniel.

Daniel arrived with a checkbook and a pen. With a quick flick of his wrist, Ethan signed a check and shoved it into my hand.

Then, without a word, he grabbed my wrist and began dragging me away.

Emily froze, her eyes turning murderous, as if she wanted to skin me alive.

As Ethan pulled me along, he didn't even glance at his girlfriend, heading straight for the elevator.

He dragged me a considerable distance before I snapped out of my stupor.

Holding the check felt like holding a burning coal, and I frantically tried to shove it back into his hands.

My voice trembled with sudden panic. "No. I'm not going with you."

I barely had any strength left. As I struggled against his grip, my vision began to turn dark.

Ethan's icy laugh sounded muffled and distant beside my ear. "Setting a price and going back on your word? That's not how business works, Claire."

I opened my mouth to say something, but no sound came out.

Dazed, I followed Ethan into the elevator, only then catching the faint smell of alcohol on him.

As my mind drifted in and out of focus, I couldn't even tell if this was reality or a dream.

By the time I managed to regain some semblance of clarity, I was already inside a hotel room.

My back was slammed against the wall. Ethan stood over me, his hands planted on either side of my shoulders, his knuckles white as his fists clenched tight.

He looked down at me, his bloodshot eyes ablaze with pure, unadulterated hatred.

Years ago, when I had stomped on his hand, he had looked at me with this exact same gaze.

The only difference was that back then, he had been the one kneeling on the ground, staring up at me.

Now, he towered over me, looking down with icy contempt.

"Claire," he gritted out, his voice trembling with rage, "you really are getting more despicable by the day."