Her Demand, His Desire

Pamela’s Point of View

I step from the cab onto rain that comes down in sheets, soaking me to the bone the instant my feet hit pavement. My hair feels plastered on my face, my clothes are soaked, and I can feel the water squeaking in my shoes. None of that matters. My sister is in the hospital, fighting for her life, and I have no one else to turn to but him-my father.

I push the heavy glass doors open to my father's building. As I do, I try to suppress the shiver that threatens to run through me. The lobby is as cold and uninviting as it ever was, a perfect reflection of the man who owns it. The receptionist gives me a once-over; her eyes widen slightly at my disheveled appearance, but I don't stop. I am unable to. I need to see him.

My father is in a meeting, but quite frankly, I don't give a damn. I stomp toward the conference room, not allowing all the staring and whispered conversations to be a deterrent against me. With every step that brings me closer, my heart beats more rapidly within my chest. I finally reach the big oak doors and push them open without hesitation.

He sits at the head of the table; his expression a mask of badly concealed surprise and annoyance by my sudden appearance. But he doesn't betray it openly, not with someone else in the room.

My gaze catches on the man sitting opposite him, his back to me. The presence is suffocating, even from behind. Broad shoulders fill out his tailored suit perfectly, and the lines of his posture scream power and authority. There's an air of command about him, something that tells me that he isn't just another businessman, he's someone important, someone who is used to getting his way.

But I'm not here for him.

"Pamela," my father says, his voice cold and clipped. "This is not the time.

"Dad, please," I beg, my voice cracking as I advance, regardless of how water is dripping off me onto the spotless floor. "I need your help. It's my sister; she's in the hospital. It's critical, and they need to get their payment up front. I don't have the money… please, Dad."

He narrows his eyes at me; a flash of irritation crosses his face. I can see the anger tickling beneath the surface, but he holds it in, casting a glance over to the man seated across from him.

"Pamela, this is not the place for this," he says tightly. "We'll discuss this later."

My eyes prick, and tears mix with the still-dripping rain from my hair. "Dad, she might not make it. I don't have time for later. Please. Joana needs it!”

The guy in the suit suddenly shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and I followed the action with my eye. I hadn't seen his face yet, but the weight of his gaze felt like an onlooker weighing it all up inside his head, deciding upon interjection or saying nothing.

My father's lips press into a thin line, his gaze hardening. "You're making a scene, Pamela," he says through gritted teeth. "Leave now, and we'll talk when I'm done here."

But I am unable to leave. Not when my sister's life depends on it. “Dad, please.”

Slowly, the man he was talking to rose behind his desk, the chair scratching along the floor. He turned just so, so I could almost see the profile of his face: angular jaw, piercing eyes, and an expression unreadable, but riveting all the same. Younger than I had anticipated, yet there was something about the way that gaze hardened, forcing me to swallow nervously.

“Everything okay here?” he asks, deep voice resonating, laced with silent authority running a shiver down my spine.

My father stiffens; his jaw clenches while forcing him into a smile. “Y-Yes, Mister Hamilton. Everything is fine. My daughter just needs to learn a little about setting boundaries.”

His gaze slides to mine, and the weight of his stare makes me want to shiver; it's like he can see right through me. I can't quite read his expression, but there's something there, something almost. curious.

"Boundaries are important," he says slowly, his eyes not straying from mine. “But so is family.”

There is silence for a moment, thick and heavy, so that I can barely breathe. My father's face goes an even deeper shade of red, and the rage simmers visibly just under his polished veneer. But before he utters one word, the man turns back to him.

“Maybe this is a topic for another time,” he says; his tone brokers no argument. "It would appear more pressing business is at hand."

Without waiting for an answer, he smoothes his suit jacket and confidently strides past me. The scent of expensive cologne hangs in the air, an enticement of what has been and what will be. His presence is electric; even now that he is gone, the aura remains.

“M-Mister Hamilton, I’m sorry! I’ll take care of it! Please, consider my proposal…” my dad’s voice slowly disappeared when the man doesn’t dare to stop.

I stand there, soaked and hopeless, while my father glares at me with badly concealed anger.

"Get out!" he growls in that low, venomous tone. "And don't you dare come back here again."

His words cut deep into my soul, yet I have no option. I turn and walk out, feeling the weight of this situation weighing down, knowing I had to find some other way to save my sister.

As I step out of the conference room, my mind is racing with thoughts of my sister. The cold, sterile atmosphere of my father's building seems to be closing in on me, and I want to be out, to breathe, to figure out what to do.

But as I turn to make my way to the door, I again see him: the man from my father's meeting, standing near the glass doors, his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on me. I can't read his expression, but there's something in the depth of his eyes, something calculating, like he is sizing me up, weighing my worth. I get the inkling feeling he is following my movements.

I make my way towards him, trying to act as indifferently as possible to the dreaded sensation of his gaze. As I am about to push through the doors, I catch his gaze slipping down momentarily, lingering on my drenched white shirt. The rain has tugged the fabric down onto my skin, and I feel a jolt at the realization that it probably is way more revealing than I intended.

Anger and embarrassment rise through me like a hot flush. How dare he? Here I am, desperate and soaked to the bone, trying to save my sister's life, and he has the audacity to look at me like that?

“Is this some sort of charity case for you?” I snap, my voice trembling with emotion. “If you’re looking for someone to pity, you can save it. I don’t need your help, and I definitely don’t need your judgment.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing. He's just standing there, his face cold, detached, as though my explosion had no effect on him whatsoever.

I can’t take it anymore. The pressure, the desperation, the humiliation—it’s all too much. I turn on my heel and push through the doors, letting the rain wash over me once again. I don’t care that I’m soaked, that I’m making a scene. All I care about is finding a way to save my sister, and that man, whoever he is, can keep his cold, arrogant gaze to himself.

I begin running, feet splashing in puddles as I make my way down the street. Rain mixes with my tears, my vision hazing, but I don't stop. I can't stop. I need to think, I need to figure out what to do next, and I can't do that with him staring at me like I'm some kind of charity case.

In a run, the blurring city lights have only one clear thing: the determination in my chest.

Whatever the cost, I will save my sister, and I am going to do it by myself. But even as I think this, his image lingers in my mind, a cold, calculating gaze like a shadow I can't quite shrug off. And somehow, deep down, I know that isn't going to be the last time I see him.