•005

MIA POV

I make it three blocks before the first sob rips out of me. The city blurs—honking taxis, rushing pedestrians, the indifferent gray sky pressing down like it knows what I just walked away from. My heels click too loudly on the pavement, each step echoing the word no I hurled at him like a weapon.

I should feel victorious. I said it to his face. I looked Ryder Vaughn in the eyes—the man who once broke me so completely my family fled the state—and I chose dignity over desperation.

Instead I feel hollow.

My phone buzzes in my coat pocket. Mom. I answer immediately.

“Hey, sweetie.” Her voice is thinner than yesterday. Frailer. “How did the interview go?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I turned it down.”

Silence. Then a soft, tired sigh that carves another piece out of me. “Mia… the offer was real?”

“Triple my salary. Benefits. Everything.” My voice cracks. “But it was him , Mom. Ryder. I can’t. I just… I can’t.”

Another pause. Longer this time. I hear the beep of her IV machine in the background, the one we can barely afford.

“I understand,” she says quietly. Too quietly. “We’ll figure it out.”

But we both know we won’t. The last round of treatments drained what little savings we had left. Her cancer came back aggressive three months ago, and the doctors have been blunt: without the new immunotherapy trial, she has months. Maybe less.

I clutch the phone tighter. “I’ll find something else. I’ll take double shifts. I’ll—”

“Mia.” Her voice is gentle but final. “You’ve carried us long enough. If this job could have saved me… maybe you should have—”

I stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk. A courier nearly crashes into me.

“Mom, don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry, baby. I just hate that you’re still hurting because of that boy. After all these years.”

I hang up before I start crying in public again. Five years and one ten-minute meeting with Ryder Vaughn, and I’m right back where I started—on the verge of shattering.

By the time I reach my tiny studio apartment, my hands are shaking so badly I drop my keys twice. The moment the door closes, I slide down the wall and let the tears come. Ugly, choking sobs that hurt my ribs. I cry for the girl I was at seventeen. For the mother who deserves better than a daughter too broken to take the devil’s money. For the future that feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.

My phone lights up on the floor beside me. Unknown number. I almost ignore it, but something makes me swipe.

Unknown: You walked away, but the offer hasn’t. Take the night. Sleep on it. The contract is on your email. — R

I delete the message without opening the attachment.

Hours later, I’m still curled on the couch in the dark when the second call comes. This one is from the hospital.

“Miss Thompson? This is Dr. Ellis. Your mother was admitted this evening. You need to come right away.”

The world tilts.

I don’t remember grabbing my coat. Don’t remember the subway ride or the sprint through sterile hallways that smell like death and disinfectant. All I know is the sight of my mother in that bed—smaller, paler, machines beeping around her like accusations.

“She had a bad reaction to the current meds,” the doctor says softly. “Her body is… struggling. The trial drug we discussed could buy her time. Quality time. But insurance won’t cover it, and the out-of-pocket cost is—”

“Two hundred and forty thousand for the first six months,” I finish dully. I already know the number by heart.

The doctor nods.

I sit beside Mom’s bed long after visiting hours end, holding her cold hand. She drifts in and out of consciousness, murmuring my name sometimes. When she’s lucid, she smiles weakly.

“You did the right thing today,” she lies. “Don’t carry guilt. I’m proud of you.”

I press my forehead to her knuckles and cry silently so she won’t hear.

At 3:17 a.m., my phone buzzes again. Another text from the unknown number.

Unknown: I know about your mom. I’m sorry. The job is still yours. No strings. Just come back. Let me fix one thing I broke.

I stare at the screen until it goes black.

Fix it.

As if anything could ever be fixed.

As if I could walk back into that glass tower tomorrow and kneel again—this time willingly—for the man who once made me bleed on the school floor for entertainment.

But Mom’s chest rises and falls so shallowly. The machines keep beeping. Time is running out.

I close my eyes and see seventeen-year-old Ryder laughing while I cried. Then I see twenty-three-year-old Ryder’s face when I said no—the flicker of something almost like pain.

My thumb hovers over the reply button.

I type one word.

Then delete it.

Type it again.

The choice feels like dying.

Mia: I’ll think about it.

I send it, then throw the phone across the room like it burned me.

Mom stirs. “Mia?”

“I’m here,” I whisper, voice hoarse. “I’m right here.”

She squeezes my hand once, weak as a breath.

Outside the window, the city lights glitter coldly. Somewhere in that glittering tower, Ryder Vaughn is probably sleeping like a king, unaware that his latest game might be the only thing standing between me and losing the last person I have left.

I hate him.

God, I hate him so much it feels like love sometimes.

And I think… I think I’m about to let him destroy me all over again.

Only this time, the stakes aren’t just my heart.

It's involves my mother’s life now.