Chapter 5

Lewis Delgado looked down at my hand gripping his sleeve.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then his expression hardened.

He jerked his arm away.

The movement was so violent that I lost my balance.

My shoulder slammed against the hallway wall, and I slid down onto the cold marble floor.

Pain shot through my already burned wrist.

I gasped, instinctively curling my injured hand against my chest.

Lewis didn't even bend down.

He stood above me, calmly straightening the cuffs of his custom-made shirt.

"No."

One word.

Cold. Final.

I stared up at him.

"Lewis..."

"You want your money so badly?"

He looked at me with the same contempt he reserved for disloyal soldiers who tried to bargain with the Delgado family.

"Then prove you're telling the truth."

My fingers tightened around my phone.

"What?"

Lewis pointed at the marble floor beneath my knees.

"Kneel."

I froze.

His mouth curved into a cruel smile.

"Stay right here until dawn."

He glanced toward the closed bedroom door.

"If you're still kneeling when the sun comes up, maybe I'll believe your little story about your father."

I couldn't speak.

He continued, completely unmoved.

"Then I'll consider releasing your payment."

For three years, I'd negotiated multimillion-dollar acquisitions for the Delgado organization.

I'd sat across from armed Mafia captains, handled financial disputes between rival families, and helped Lewis turn failing businesses into profitable operations.

I'd earned every dollar he owed me.

And now he wanted me to kneel outside his bedroom like a criminal begging for mercy.

Not because I owed him anything.

But because he could.

Lewis turned away.

I forced myself to speak.

"Lewis!"

He stopped.

"That's a person's life!"

My voice echoed down the empty corridor.

"That's my father!"

Lewis stood with his back to me.

I swallowed hard.

"He's in the hospital fighting to stay alive. I only need twenty thousand dollars. You spend more than that on a single bottle of whiskey for your Mafia associates!"

My voice broke.

"Please. I'm begging you."

Lewis didn't turn around.

After several seconds, he spoke.

"Clarissa just had a nightmare."

I stared at his back.

His voice remained flat.

"She's frightened. She needs someone with her."

He reached for the bedroom door.

"Stop making so much noise, Abigail."

My heart sank.

"And if you disturb her again, you won't get a single cent."

The door opened.

Warm light spilled into the corridor.

Then Lewis stepped inside.

The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

I sat motionless on the floor.

The hallway fell completely silent.

For a long time, I stared at the place where he'd been standing.

I couldn't understand how a man could be so cruel.

I'd known Lewis Delgado was ruthless.

He was the heir to one of New York's most powerful Mafia families. I'd seen him order armed men out of his office with a single look. I'd watched him destroy business rivals without losing a night's sleep.

But I'd always believed there was a difference between the man he showed the underworld and the man I'd spent three years caring for.

Apparently, I'd been wrong.

To Lewis, my father's life was worth less than Clarissa Simmons's bad dream.

I lowered my head and unlocked my phone.

There was no time to cry.

I opened my contacts.

The first number belonged to a former business associate of my father.

I typed quickly.

Mr. Bennett, I'm sorry to contact you so late. My father is in critical condition. I urgently need to borrow twenty thousand dollars for his surgery. I'll repay you as soon as my outstanding commission is released.

I sent the message.

Then I opened another contact.

And another.

Former classmates.

Old family friends.

People who'd once attended lavish parties at the Fox estate.

People who'd called my father their closest friend when his businesses were thriving.

I messaged every one of them.

Some messages remained unread.

Others showed that they had been delivered, but no reply came.

Several numbers were no longer in service.

A few contacts had blocked me years ago, when the Fox family's financial collapse made us inconvenient to know.

I kept trying.

My fingers shook so badly that I could barely type.

The burns on my right hand throbbed.

My fever made the words on the screen blur.

But I couldn't stop.

Every minute mattered.

At 10:37 p.m., I sent another message.

At 10:46, I tried calling an old family acquaintance.

No answer.

At 10:53, I contacted a former colleague from the financial firm where I'd interned before joining the Delgado organization.

The call went straight to voicemail.

I checked my banking app again.

Available balance: $30,000.

The number hadn't changed.

Twenty thousand dollars.

That was all I needed.

For the Delgado family, it was pocket change.

For my father, it was the difference between receiving the surgery he needed and losing his chance to survive.

I looked toward Lewis's bedroom.

For one terrible moment, I considered knocking again.

But I remembered his warning.

Disturb her again, and you won't get a single cent.

I couldn't afford to lose the only source of money still available to me.

So I stayed where I was.

My knees rested against the freezing marble.

My back ached.

The fever made my entire body tremble.

I kept sending messages.

One after another.

Please call me.

It's an emergency.

I can provide proof of repayment.

I only need twenty thousand dollars.

No one answered.

The minutes dragged past.

Eleven o'clock.

Eleven fifteen.

Eleven thirty.

Every time my phone vibrated, my heart leaped.

But it was always another automated notification.

Never the reply I needed.

I called the hospital twice.

The first time, a nurse told me the doctors were still working on my father.

The second time, the line was busy.

I stared at the screen, silently begging it to ring.

Just one person.

I needed only one person willing to help.

By eleven fifty, I could barely feel my legs.

My fever had climbed so high that the corridor seemed to sway around me.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes for a moment.

I remembered my father before everything had fallen apart.

Zachary Fox had once been a respected businessman in New York's financial circles.

He'd taught me how to read balance sheets before I was old enough to understand why they mattered.

Whenever I made a mistake, he'd tell me to check the numbers again.

"Money comes and goes, Abby. But you can always start over if you keep your head."

After the family business collapsed, he'd aged almost overnight.

Then came the illness.

The hospital visits.

The treatments.

The mounting bills.

I'd promised him that once the debt was cleared, things would get better.

And last month, when his condition finally stabilized, I'd sat beside his hospital bed and told him we were almost free.

He'd smiled.

"You've done enough, sweetheart."

I'd shaken my head.

"Not yet, Dad."

I'd promised him a fresh start.

A little house somewhere quiet.

No more Delgado family.

No more debt collectors.

No more living under the protection of men who believed they owned us.

All I needed was a little more time.

At midnight, my phone vibrated.

I opened my eyes immediately.

A message had arrived.

From St. Catherine's Medical Center.

For one brief second, hope surged through me.

I unlocked the screen.

Then I read the message.

Patient: Zachary Fox

Emergency resuscitation unsuccessful.

Time of death: 11:58 p.m.

Family members are requested to report to the hospital to complete the necessary procedures.

I stared at the words.

I read them once.

Then again.

Every word was familiar.

I understood what patient meant.

I understood resuscitation.

I understood unsuccessful.

And I understood time of death.

But when those words appeared together beneath my father's name, my mind refused to accept them.

I blinked.

The message didn't change.

I refreshed the screen.

Still the same.

Time of death: 11:58 p.m.

Two minutes before midnight.

My father had died while I sat outside Lewis Delgado's bedroom, begging for money I'd already earned.

I opened the hospital's number.

My thumb hovered over the call button.

I wanted to ask them to check again.

Perhaps there'd been a mistake.

Perhaps they'd sent the message to the wrong family.

Perhaps another patient had the same name.

But I couldn't make myself press the button.

My fingers had gone completely numb.

I sat against the wall, staring at the screen until the words began to blur.

Then, from behind the bedroom door, I heard Clarissa's voice.

"Lewis..."

Soft.

Sweet.

Almost childlike.

"I'm scared."

A moment later, Lewis answered.

"Don't be afraid."

His voice was so gentle that I barely recognized it.

"I'm here."

I closed my eyes.

For three years, I'd heard that voice in my dreams.

I'd once imagined Lewis speaking to me that way.

I'd thought that if I worked hard enough, endured enough, and proved myself useful enough, perhaps one day he'd look at me with genuine affection.

Now I understood.

He'd always been capable of tenderness.

He'd simply never wanted to give it to me.

My father was dead.

And Lewis Delgado was comforting the woman who'd spilled wine on her dress.

I waited for the tears.

They didn't come.

There was no scream.

No sobbing.

No sudden collapse.

Just a strange, empty silence spreading through my chest.

I placed one hand against the wall and slowly pushed myself upright.

My legs trembled.

For a moment, I thought I might fall.

Then I steadied myself.

The fever that had been burning through me all evening seemed to have vanished.

My skin felt cold.

My body felt almost weightless.

I looked once at the closed bedroom door.

I didn't knock.

I didn't call Lewis's name.

There was nothing left to say.

I turned and walked downstairs.

The Delgado mansion was quiet.

The grand chandeliers had been dimmed, leaving only a few wall lamps glowing along the corridors.

Two armed guards stood near the main entrance.

Neither paid much attention as I passed.

To them, I was just another member of the household staff.

A woman in plain clothes returning to her room after a long shift.

I made my way to the servants' quarters.

The room was small.

A narrow bed.

A wardrobe.

A desk.

And one suitcase tucked beneath the bed.

Three years in the Delgado household, and this was all the space that truly belonged to me.

I pulled out the suitcase and placed it on the bed.

Inside were a few old clothes.

Two sweaters.

A pair of jeans.

Some underwear.

Nothing expensive.

Nothing Lewis had bought me.

I left every designer dress, every piece of jewelry, and every gift he'd ever given me exactly where it was.

Those things belonged to the life I'd spent three years pretending to have.

I no longer wanted any part of it.

Once I'd packed, I opened the bottom drawer of the desk.

Inside lay a thick folder.

My Emotional Services Invoice.

The ledger I'd maintained throughout my three years with Lewis.

Every event I'd attended.

Every drink I'd taken on his behalf.

Every financial favor.

Every humiliation.

Every hour of work.

One thousand and ninety-five days, reduced to numbers and neatly organized records.

I'd believed that if I calculated everything carefully enough, I could eventually walk away without losing anything more.

How stupid I'd been.

I placed the folder on the desk and opened it to the final page.

Then I picked up a pen.

My hand was still trembling.

I stared at the blank space for a long moment before writing.

Final Settlement Statement

Funeral expenses for Zachary Fox: Priceless.

Payment status: Paid in full by Abigail Fox.

Outstanding balance: All debts settled.

I put down the pen.

For a moment, I looked at the words.

There was no amount I could enter beside my father's name.

No number large enough to describe what I'd lost.

Lewis could keep his money.

He could keep the penthouse.

He could keep the sapphire necklace he'd given Clarissa.

He could keep every expensive possession he'd once used to convince me I was fortunate to belong to him.

None of it could bring my father back.

I tore the final page from the ledger.

Then I walked to the door and taped it at eye level.

Anyone entering the room would see it immediately.

I didn't leave a farewell letter.

I didn't explain where I was going.

Lewis Delgado had made it clear that my words meant nothing to him.

There was no reason to waste any more.

I closed the suitcase.

Then I switched off the light.

At the main entrance, one of the security guards glanced at me.

"Miss Fox?"

I stopped.

He looked at the suitcase in my hand.

"Heading somewhere?"

"Yes."

He hesitated.

"Does Mr. Delgado know?"

I looked at him.

Then I gave him the same polite smile I'd perfected over three years.

"He will."

The guard said nothing more.

Perhaps he assumed I was running an errand.

Perhaps he didn't care.

Either way, the gates opened.

I stepped outside.

Rain was pouring over the Delgado estate.

Cold winter rain.

It hammered against the stone driveway, splashed across the expensive cars parked beneath the covered entrance, and streamed down the iron gates.

I had no umbrella.

I didn't look for one.

I simply gripped the handle of my suitcase and walked into the storm.

Within seconds, my hair was soaked.

Rainwater ran down my face and slipped beneath my collar.

The last traces of dried red wine washed from my skin.

My burned wrist stung.

My clothes clung to my body.

But I kept walking.

Behind me, the Delgado mansion glowed against the darkness.

For three years, I'd lived inside those walls.

I'd believed that if I could survive long enough to pay off the Fox family's debt, I'd eventually be free.

I hadn't imagined freedom would come at such a terrible price.

At the curb, I stopped beside a storm drain.

I took out my phone.

The screen was wet, but it still worked.

There were no missed calls from Lewis.

No messages.

Nothing.

I removed the SIM card.

For a moment, I held the tiny piece of plastic between my fingers.

That number had been my connection to the Delgado organization for three years.

Lewis had used it to summon me at any hour.

His associates had called whenever they needed a financial problem solved.

The household staff had contacted me whenever something went wrong.

And tonight, I'd used it to beg strangers for enough money to save my father.

I opened my fingers.

The SIM card dropped through the metal grate and disappeared into the rushing water below.

I watched it vanish.

Then I picked up my suitcase and continued down the street.

I didn't look back.

For three years, I'd calculated every expense, every favor, and every debt.

I'd believed there was a price for everything.

But standing in the rain that night, I finally understood that some losses could never be repaid.

My father was gone.

And the man who could have helped me save him had chosen not to.

This time, I didn't need a calculator.

The Delgado family and I were finished.

Our accounts were closed.