Chapter 3- Just a piece of paper

Kayla's pov

I sit at my desk leaning back and chewing on the inside of my mouth till I taste blood. It was a bad habit I formed over time. Before, it was pulling out my hear, but after I nearly went bald, I decided to pick a much different outlet.

I'm so deep in thought I don't hear him calling out my name. "For god's sake Miss Robinson, where's your mind?"

I snap back to the present, jerking a little at the sound of his voice. "Yes sir?"

"Get me coffee and a breakfast sandwich. Bacon, egg and cheese to be precise."

"Sir," I chimed, "have you had the time to think about my request."

He stared me down. That was more that he'd looked at me in six months, "There's nothing to think about Miss Robinson. If you bring that up again, you'll forfeit your salary. Buying clothes and food for goodwill doesn't seem like such a bad idea."

I merely gasped in response because there was nothing else that I could do.

"Now do what I overpay you for. Coffee and Sandwich. Chop chop!" With that, she walked right into his office and shut the door, hard behind him.

"Chop, chop," I said, mimicking him.

Before I can wear my undersized forever 21 heels, he reappears. "Forget about it. Your too damn slow and I've lost my appetite." He sighs, "Cancel all my appointments for today. And go home, you look like you haven't slept a wink."

When he tells me to go home, I think I am hearing wrong.

Damien Blackwood doesn’t send people home. He doesn’t do empathy or early hours or breaks. He stays locked up in that glass fortress of an office until long after everyone else has left. Sometimes Ethan or Miles stops by to drag him to dinner, but even then, he is still checking his phone, barking orders, pacing with that same restless energy that makes everyone in the building nervous.

So when he looks at me this morning really looks at me and says, “Cancel all my appointments for the day. And go home, you look like you haven’t slept a wink,” I almost ask if he is okay.

Instead, I just nod, grab my bag, and walk out. My brain is buzzing like a faulty wire.

I sit back down at my desk, staring into space. My fingers are itching for something to do typing, sorting, filing anything but sitting still. What do people even do with unexpected time off? I could call my sister. I could visit Mom. I should be happy about that, but the thought of seeing her lying there again makes my stomach twist into knots.

It is not that I do not want to see her. I do. More than anything. But every visit leaves me hollow. The smell of antiseptic, the hum of machines, the way her skin looks paler every time I see her. It makes me feel useless, small, and very powerless.

And now, after being refused again, I can’t even pay for her next dialysis session.

I sigh and look around my desk. I am the only one sitting here with nothing to do. The idea of just going home to sit in silence makes my chest ache.

So instead, I go into his office.

The air in here feels different. It smells faintly of cedar and coffee. His jacket is draped over the back of his chair, his desk perfectly arranged. Even his pens are lined up in perfect order. I run a hand across the polished wood surface, half expecting it to burn me for being somewhere I do not belong.

I am just tidying up, just doing my job that's all.

But then I see it a small stack of invoices on the edge of his desk. I pick one up.

One of my tasks as his secretary was filling bills and fulfilling orders. The invoice I was holding was one of those payments.

It was routine. Just like every other payment request I have ever processed. Blackwood Industries pays out thousands every day construction expenses, supply chains, contracts all perfectly logged, perfectly organized.

There's a small voice at the back of my head that's slowly becoming louder. I try to shut it out, but it's too loud.

I could move one payment, just one. No theft, no hacking, no passwords. Just a reroute. A form that looks normal, stamped and approved. The hospital could get what Mom needs. Nobody would notice. Not right away, at least.

The truth is, I'd thought about it for a long time. When mum's condition started to worsen, I had thought about it. The guilt made me wipe the thought clean from my mind, but right now that voice was louder than ever. I had already found a justification for it. It's for mum, I'll put it back, he'll never notice.

My hand is shaking as I slide into his chair. The leather feels too soft, too expensive under my palms. My heartbeat is thundering in my ears. My pulse is so loud it feels like my veins are about to explode.

Fuck it!

I find one of the older invoices, duplicate it, change a line, and adjust the amount. My fingers are trembling so badly I almost hit cancel instead of print.

It is just a piece of paper. That is all. Just paper and ink and the sound of my mother breathing through a machine.

I stamp it.

And in that moment, my fate is sealing itself.

I pick up my bag, stuff the invoice in and start walking. By the time I get to the elevator, I am lightheaded. The ground floor is blurring with polished shoes and clacking heels. Everyone I pass is smiling or waving. I smile back, pretending like my world isn’t spinning apart.

Just as I reach the lobby, someone calls my name.

“Kayla?”

I nearly jump out of my skin.

It is Susan. Her kind, rounded face breaks into a grin the moment she sees me. She is in her forties, married, two kids. One of those people who make the office feel human. We used to work on the same floor before I got promoted to assist the CEO. The day I left, everyone cried. They said I would not last a month upstairs. No one ever does. They either quit or get fired. But somehow, I have made it six months. Record time.

Susan eyes me curiously. “Don’t tell me the devil himself gave you a day off.”

I laugh or try to. It comes out strained. “Yeah. Guess he is feeling generous today.”

She chuckles and shakes her head. “Maybe the apocalypse is near.”

“Maybe,” I murmur, forcing a smile.

We talk for a few seconds about her kids, about lunch plans normal things. Mundane things. But my mind is already miles away. My palms are sweating, my heart is racing. Every second I stand here feels like a risk. Like if I stay any longer, she will somehow see what I have done written all over my face.

So I say goodbye, turn toward the glass doors, and step outside.

I have crossed a line I cannot uncross.

My heart is pounding so hard that it hurts. The world around me feels unreal, too bright, too loud.

The taxi ride to the hospital is a blur of noise and motion. The driver is talking about traffic, about politics, about things that do not matter. I am nodding, pretending to listen, staring out the window as the city rushes past. My fingers keep twisting the hem of my sleeve, my pulse beating in my wrists.

When we stop, I almost throw the money at him and run.

The smell of antiseptic hits me the moment I walk in. I am clutching the envelope so tightly my nails are leaving half-moons in the paper.

The nurse at the counter looks up with tired eyes. I tell her Mom’s name. She types something, then nods. I hand her the envelope.

She counts, checks, stamps, then looks up. “Payment received.”

That is it. Just three words. And yet the weight of it almost breaks me.

I exhale shakily. My hands are cold. My chest feels tight. I have done it. I have actually done it.

“Kayla?”

I freeze turning to the sound of the warm familiar voice.

Wesley.

His hair is a little messy, like he has been running between wards all day. When he smiles, it reaches his eyes, and something in my chest loosens for the first time in hours.

“Hey,” he says, walking toward me. “You look exhausted. Did you get the advance?”

My throat goes dry. For a second, I forget how to breathe. “Yes,” I say quickly. The lie tastes bitter. “Yeah, I did. Everything’s fine now.”

He nods, relief softening his face. “That’s good. Really good. I was worried you wouldn’t be able to sort it out.”

I smile weakly. “Me too.”

We walk together down the hallway, and the sound of our footsteps echoes off the tiled floor. He tells me about his day, about a patient who made him laugh, about how tired he is. I nod, pretending to listen, but my mind is somewhere else entirely.

Every time he looks at me, I feel it the guilt. The heat creeping up my neck. The invisible stain on my conscience. He is kind, warm, steady. And all I can think about is how I am standing here, smiling, lying through my teeth while the ink on that forged invoice is still drying.

He stops and touches my arm gently. “You should go home and rest. You look pale.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I will.”

But I know I won’t. I can’t rest. Not after what I have done.

When he walks away, I stand there for a moment, staring down the hall where my mother’s room is. I want to go in. I want to see her. But my feet will not move. I am afraid. Afraid that she will look at me and somehow know.

So I turn around and walk back out into the sunlight.

Everything looks normal. But I am not the same person who walked in here. Something inside me is shifting, breaking.

And even though the money is paid, the guilt is just beginning to burn.