His Desperate Plea

"You’ve been chasing this contract for a month now, haven’t you? Finish this drink, and I’ll sign it immediately."

I stared at the tall glass, brimming with vodka to the point of overflowing. Ignoring the cramps twisting through my stomach, I forced a smile toward Angela Clarke.

With trembling fingers, I picked up the glass from the table. Under everyone’s watchful eyes, I downed the liquor in a quick gulp.

The moment it hit my stomach, a fiery sting spread through me, and I couldn’t stop the involuntary shudder that wracked my body.

Last week, during chemotherapy, the doctor insisted I stay in the hospital. She warned me that if I ignored her advice, given how quickly my condition was deteriorating, I could die at any moment.

I tore out every piece of equipment attached to me and left the hospital amidst the doctor’s hysterical shouts.

This was the last deal I needed to close. Once this was signed, I would have no regrets left.

Clenching my fists and grinding my teeth, I pulled the contract from my briefcase, flipped to the signature page, and respectfully placed it before Angela.

I uncapped the pen and offered it to her. “Here you go.”

Angela took the pen from my hand and frowned as she carefully flipped through the contract, reading it front to back more than once.

I hesitated as I watched her, debating whether to explain myself. But before I could speak, Angela dropped the contract onto the floor.

I forced a smile then bent down to pick it up. As I reached for the document, she pressed her stiletto heel down on it.

She tilted her head slightly, a smug expression playing across her face.

“Matthew,” she called out.

At her words, my grip on the corner of the contract tightened, and my body froze. I nearly lost my balance.

I glanced toward the door. A man stood there, his expression dark as he walked toward me.

He stopped beside me, looking down with an air of dominance. His lips parted, and in a voice both cold and faintly scornful, he said, “Giselle Stark, it really is you.

“So, it seems your life hasn’t improved much since our divorce.”

Matthew Anderson’s gaze remained icy as he regarded me, his tone dripping with resentment and disdain.

Still crouched on the floor, I forced myself to smile at him.

“I’ve long heard of your reputation, Mr. Anderson. I know there’s no shortage of companies desperate to work with you.

“Please—give us a chance. Whatever your terms, our company will agree to them.”

The smile on my face began to feel painfully stiff.

My stomach churned violently, making me desperate to end the humiliating moment as quickly as possible.

Matthew had always hated it when I groveled.

I could only hope that his disgust today would make him send me away sooner.

He turned his face aside, his expression full of distaste, and then sat down in the chair beside me.

He picked up an unopened bottle of Vodka and held it out to me. “Finish this, and I’ll consider giving you a chance.”

I looked up at the full bottle of liquor, my stomach twisting uncontrollably. Clamping a hand over my mouth, I forced myself to swallow the bile rising in my throat.

Shaking my head at him, I whispered, “Mr. Anderson, drinking that might actually kill me.”

A flash of cold ruthlessness crossed Matthew’s gaze. Without a word, he gestured with his hand.

The two bodyguards standing by the door strode toward me and pushed me down, forcing me to kneel before him.

His eyes burned with hatred as he stared at me. With one hand, he uncapped the bottle.

Then, gripping my chin tightly with the other, he began pouring the fiery liquor into my mouth.

“This is what you owe me,” he hissed.