Chapter Nine: Ten Million Dollars

Sophia Bennett

My face burned as if I’d been slapped, the heat spreading down my neck and across my entire body until even my fingertips felt scorched. Embarrassment choked me like a too-tight collar, making it hard to draw a full breath. I sat on the edge of the massive bed, the sheet clutched desperately to my chest, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. God, I hated this. I hated the sticky evidence of last night clinging to my skin, hated the faint ache between my thighs that served as a humiliating reminder, and most of all, hated the polished stranger standing a respectful distance away, envelope in hand, watching me with careful, professional detachment.

“Name your price,” he said again, his voice smooth and unwavering.

I stared at him, anger cutting through the shame like a knife. “Do I look like a sex worker to you?” The words flew out sharper than I intended, laced with disbelief and rising fury. My voice cracked slightly on the last syllable, betraying how close I was to unraveling completely.

He didn’t flinch. If anything, his expression softened a fraction, though his posture remained impeccably straight. “Please, ma’am. Name your price. If I don’t handle this appropriately, Mr. Damien will feel as though I haven’t done my job. And he will let me go. I’d rather avoid that outcome.”

The casual way he spoke about it—as if this were just another transaction in a world I didn’t understand—made my stomach twist. Damien. Even hearing the name sent a confusing rush through me: part rage, part unwanted heat from fragmented memories I still couldn’t fully piece together. I wanted to scream at the assistant, to throw something, to demand he explain how any of this was supposed to make sense. Instead, defiance bubbled up, reckless and impulsive.

“Ten million dollars,” I spat, crossing my arms tighter over the sheet. I expected him to laugh in my face, or at least pale and stammer. A joke that absurd should have ended this farce immediately.

But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. He simply pulled out his phone, thumbs moving efficiently across the screen. “Account number, please.”

I froze. What kind of man was his boss? I had woken up to a stranger who looked like a god—tall, carved, commanding—but spoke and acted like the devil himself. And now this? Ready to wire ten million dollars like it was pocket change? My mind reeled. This had to be some elaborate prank, a cruel game played by the ultra-wealthy to toy with broken women like me.

Hesitating, I rattled off a fake account number first, watching his face closely for any sign of amusement or hesitation. He entered it without question, then paused, glancing up at me with a knowing look. He had caught on to the game.

I sighed and gave him my real account details, half expecting the ceiling to cave in. He nodded once, confirming the transfer details with quiet efficiency, then slipped the phone back into his jacket.

“You’ll see the funds later today,” he said simply. “I’ll inform Mr. Damien of the amount.”

With that, he turned and left the suite, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the sudden silence. I sat there, stunned, the weight of what I’d just done settling over me like lead. Ten million dollars. For one night of drunken stupidity. The number felt unreal, absurd. Part of me wanted to chase after him and take it back, to scream that I wasn’t for sale. But another part—the exhausted, betrayed part still raw from Ethan’s infidelity—wondered if this was karma’s twisted way of balancing the scales.

I tried to stand, pushing off the bed, but a sharp pain lanced through my inner thigh. I gasped, collapsing back onto the mattress. My hand moved instinctively to the spot, and my fingers brushed over faint marks—bruises blooming like dark petals, interspersed with the unmistakable reddish imprints of kisses. Teeth marks, too, subtle but there. Evidence of passion I barely remembered but my body clearly hadn’t forgotten.

He had said he didn’t force me. That I had begged him. But this… this told a story of intensity I wasn’t prepared to face. Pain mingled with the lingering soreness between my legs, a dull throb that sent unwelcome flashes through my mind: strong hands gripping my hips, a mouth devouring me, a voice commanding me to take more. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push it all away. What have I done?

Lying back against the pillows, I let out a shaky breath. The luxurious room felt like a cage now—silk sheets, marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city that suddenly seemed too vast and indifferent. My hand brushed against something cool on the nightstand. My phone. It had survived the night, somehow, and now it vibrated insistently in my palm.

The screen lit up with my father’s name. I didn’t want to answer. The last thing I needed was his booming voice layering guilt on top of everything else. But habit won out. I swiped to accept the call, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Father,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

“Where are you?” His tone was clipped, impatient, the way it always got when he sensed I’d stepped out of line. No hello, no concern—just demands. “I give you ten minutes to come back home.”

The words landed like a slap. Ten minutes? As if I could magically transport myself across the city, erase the evidence of last night, and pretend everything was normal. I glanced at the clock on the wall. The morning was slipping away, but my life felt like it had derailed completely.

“I… I’m on my way,” I managed, though my throat tightened around the lie. “Just give me a little more time.”

He didn’t wait for excuses. The line went dead with a click that felt final.

I dropped the phone onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. Everything was collapsing—Ethan’s betrayal, this inexplicable night with Damien Blackwood, the ridiculous fortune now supposedly heading to my account, and now my father’s summons. I felt small and overwhelmed, a girl playing at being in control when the world kept proving otherwise.

Pushing myself up more carefully this time, I ignored the protests from my body and gathered my scattered clothes. The dress from last night was wrinkled and smelled faintly of alcohol and cologne—his cologne. I dressed quickly, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I didn’t want to see the flushed cheeks or the marks peeking above the neckline.

As I stepped toward the door, the weight of the morning pressed down on me. Ten million dollars wouldn’t fix the mess inside my head. It wouldn’t erase the confusing pull I still felt toward a man I should despise. But maybe, just maybe, it would give me options. A chance to rebuild without crawling back to the life that had shattered so spectacularly.

For now, though, I had ten minutes. And a father who wouldn’t accept excuses.

I slipped out of the suite, head high despite the storm raging within, the city waiting to swallow me whole once more.