Why Did We Have to Meet Again?

"ENOUGH!"

Daryl’s voice thundered through the room, startling everyone into silence.

Without hesitation, he took off his black blazer and wrapped it around Cheesy’s half-exposed body. His eyes were sharp, but there was a flicker of something—uncertainty, perhaps.

“Get out,” he snapped at his friends. “NOW.”

“But—”

“GET OUT!” he roared.

The men in suits exchanged glances, then one by one, they left without a word. The door closed softly behind them, leaving the two of them alone.

The room fell into an uneasy silence. The ticking of the wall clock sounded unnaturally loud. Cheesy clutched the blazer tightly around her trembling frame, eyes downcast.

Daryl stood before her, his chest heaving with anger. “You’ve really become cheap, haven’t you? Seriously—just for one billion? You were willing to expose yourself like that? Is your dignity worth so little?”

Cheesy slowly lifted her face. Her tear-filled eyes stared blankly ahead, and then a faint, bitter laugh escaped her lips. “Yes. My dignity is worth nothing compared to one billion, Mr. Daryl.”

Daryl’s brow furrowed in disgust. “You’re revolting.”

He snapped. Striding toward her, he grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet, then shoved her roughly onto the sofa.

“You really are a whore,” he hissed. “You left me six years ago for a rich guy. Where is he now, huh? That nobleman you chose over me? Did he abandon you the moment you lost everything?”

“Stay out of my business!” Cheesy shouted, her voice shaking with restrained fury.

“Why? Am I wrong?” Daryl laughed bitterly.

He leaned in, his lips brushing close to her neck, about to kiss her—but Cheesy turned away just in time and slapped him hard across the face.

“You—”

Daryl grabbed her neck in rage. “How dare you slap me and reject me?!”

His grip tightened, causing Cheesy to choke in pain.

“Because my body doesn’t belong to you, Mr. Daryl!” she spat, glaring directly into his eyes.

His grip only tightened. Cheesy struggled to breathe.

Finally, he let her go with a shove. She fell to the floor, gasping.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Cheesy. Your body is disgusting. I wouldn’t touch you if you paid me. Ugh.”

Cheesy smiled faintly, though tears brimmed in her eyes. “Then please let me go, Mr. Daryl. Didn’t you just say I’m revolting?” her voice trembled.

“I’ll let you go… after you pay what you owe me.”

Cheesy closed her eyes, overwhelmed by pain and emotion. Her chest felt tight. She had no way to come up with that kind of money.

Daryl paused. Then he gripped her chin.

“Fine. I’ll let you go for now. But I don’t care how you do it—tomorrow night, I want the full hundred million.”

Her face went pale. “Mr. Daryl, I… I don’t have that kind of money. I’ll pay you back, but… in installments.”

“Installments? Are you kidding me?” he said coldly. “No. I want the full amount by tomorrow night. If you can’t pay, then drink three bottles of wine. Your choice.”

With that, Daryl yanked his blazer out of her hands and walked away without another word. The door shut, leaving Cheesy alone once more.

Her tears fell silently—not from the humiliation, but because her body was growing weaker. Her head throbbed. Her vision blurred.

“Why did we have to meet again?” she whispered faintly.

***

Cheesy's steps were unsteady as she walked through the quiet hallway of the bar. Her body trembled, and her breathing was labored. Once she slipped out the back door, she hurried to the nearest bus stop and called a taxi to the hospital.

Upon arrival, she was rushed into an examination room. The doctor, a kind-faced middle-aged woman, began checking her vitals.

“Your blood pressure has dropped drastically. Have you eaten? You look extremely pale,” the doctor said, concerned.

“I haven’t eaten since this afternoon,” Cheesy answered softly.

The doctor examined the lab results that had just come in. Her expression turned grave.

“Miss Cheesy, your condition is worsening. Your leukemia has progressed to the chronic stage. This is serious. You need to start intensive chemotherapy immediately. You can’t delay it any longer.”

Cheesy closed her eyes. “I don’t have the money, Doctor. Is there any other option?”

“Then at the very least, you need to be hospitalized.”

“No… please, just give me something for the pain. I can’t be admitted,” she whispered.

The doctor hesitated, but eventually nodded. “Fine. But this medication will only ease the pain temporarily, Cheesy.”

Cheesy smiled faintly. “That’s enough, Doctor.”

After receiving the medication, she returned to her small apartment.

Three years ago, her father's company had gone bankrupt overnight. Since then, she had been fighting to survive while battling her illness—working day and night just to afford her treatments and basic needs. Her father had disappeared a year ago and hadn’t been heard from since.

Time passed too quickly.

That night, she once again stood before the VVIP room of the luxury bar. Her heart pounded harder than ever. Her body still felt weak, but she forced herself to go.

Inside, Daryl was already sitting on the sofa—alone this time. His jet-black suit and loosely knotted tie gave him a cold, distant look. His eyes were sharp and unreadable.

“Come in,” he said without looking at her.

Cheesy stepped in cautiously, clutching the hem of her skirt.

“Where’s the money?” Daryl asked, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Daryl. I… I didn’t bring the money,” she replied, head lowered.

He leaned back, crossing his legs. “I knew it. As if any bar waitress could come up with a hundred million overnight.”

Cheesy said nothing.

“So here’s the deal…” Daryl stood, approaching her slowly. “I’m giving you a more reasonable offer.”

Cheesy raised her head slightly.

“Become my mistress,” he said nonchalantly. “Two hundred million per night. Forget the debt—just please me in bed.”

Cheesy’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Daryl. But I’m not a prostitute,” her voice shook, but it was firm.

Daryl let out a short laugh. “Not a prostitute? Last night you almost stripped in front of five men for a billion. What’s the difference?”

Cheesy’s breath caught. Her eyes reddened.

“So, what will it be?” Daryl asked. “Reject my offer… or drink the three bottles of wine?”

Cheesy closed her eyes, then reached for a crystal glass on the table. “Alright, Mr. Daryl. I’ll drink the wine.”

Daryl stared at her for a moment, then silently poured the drink. He handed her the glass.

With trembling hands, Cheesy took a big gulp. Within seconds, her body began to weaken. She coughed violently, her limbs losing strength, her chest tightening, vision blurring.

Daryl’s expression shifted. “Stop faking it.”

Cheesy clutched her chest, coughing harder, then collapsed to the floor, gasping.

“Cheesy?!”

He rushed to her. “Cheesy, get up! Don’t act in front of me!”

She tried to speak, but no words came out. Her lips turned blue. Daryl panicked, holding her face.

“Cheesy, open your eyes—don’t fall asleep!”

Her body finally went limp in his arms. Daryl stared at her pale face in disbelief.

“Cheesy, don’t fake death! Cheesy!” he shouted, cursing, holding her lifeless body.