Relief hit first. Pure. Overwhelming. The kind that made my knees weak even sitting down.
My father was safe.
The treatments would continue.
He wouldn't die because I couldn't solve an impossible equation fast enough.
I could breathe. For the first time in weeks—months—I could actually breathe. Then the shame followed.
Harder.
Sharper.
Cutting deeper because the relief had softened me first.
He did exactly what he promised.
Not a penny less.
Not a single condition left unfulfilled.
Gideon Jones was a lot of things. But he wasn't a liar.
I hated that most. Hated that he'd kept his word while I sat here plotting escapes and nursing my anger like it was the only thing left that belonged to me. Hated that the proof glowed bright and undeniable in my hands.
I'd sold myself. And he'd paid. Fair and square.
The bedroom door opened without a knock.
I didn't jump. Didn't gasp. But my spine went rigid, hand tightening around my phone hard enough to hurt.
Gideon filled the frame. Shoulders too broad. Presence too certain. Like he'd measured the doorway when he bought the place and knew exactly how much space he'd occupy standing there.
Calm.
Unhurried.
Already irritated in that quiet way that made my skin prickle.
"Dinner."
Not a request. Not a question. A statement of fact delivered in that low, controlled voice that probably worked wonders on teammates and reporters and women who didn't know better.
I didn't look at him. Kept my eyes on the phone screen. On the proof of what I'd traded. On the green checkmarks that bought six months of my life.
"I'm not hungry."
Silence.
The kind that pressed against my eardrums. That made the rain outside sound too loud and my breathing too obvious.
"That wasn't an invitation."
My jaw clenched. Something hot and vicious sparked beneath my ribs—anger, maybe, or the ghost of self-preservation finally waking up and realizing it had missed its chance to run.
I turned. Slowly. Deliberately. Met his eyes. Dark blue. Unreadable. Fixed on me with the focus of someone who'd already decided how this ended and was simply waiting for me to catch up.
"No."
