CHAPTER THREE

EVA

Three hundred thousand dollars.

That was the number glaring back at me from the loan app on my phone screen, red and accusatory, like a wound that refused to close. I stared at it until my vision blurred, until the numbers started to swim together into one massive, incomprehensible debt that sat on my chest and made it impossible to breathe.

And then my phone rang.

St. Mary's Hospital. Again.

I closed my eyes and answered, already knowing what they were going to say before the nurse's apologetic voice filtered through the speaker.

"Miss Rose, I'm calling about your mother's treatment plan. The doctors have reviewed her case, and we're going to need an additional one hundred thousand dollars for the new round of chemotherapy. Without it, we can't move forward with the procedure scheduled for next week."

One hundred thousand dollars.

On top of the three hundred thousand I already owed.

Four hundred thousand total.

I thanked her quietly, promised I'd figure something out, and ended the call before she could hear the sob building in my throat.

Four hundred thousand dollars. Where was I supposed to get four hundred thousand dollars?

I'd been borrowing for months now, scraping together every cent I could find, selling everything I owned that had any value. My father's watch. My grandmother's jewelry. The few decent pieces of furniture we'd had left. I'd taken out loans from banks that wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot pole under normal circumstances, maxed out credit cards I couldn't afford, and begged friends I hadn't spoken to in years.

And now I had nothing left to sell. Nowhere left to borrow from. No options except the ones that came with consequences I wasn't sure I could survive.

My phone rang again, and my stomach dropped when I saw the name on the screen.

Richard Richardson.

Speak of the devil, etcetera, etcetera.

I contemplated ignoring the call, letting it go to voicemail, and pretending I'd dropped my phone in a river or lost it on a bus. But I knew that would only make things worse. Richardson didn't tolerate being ignored. He barely tolerated being acknowledged.

So I took a deep breath—a very, very deep breath that did absolutely nothing to calm the panic clawing its way up my throat—and answered.

"Hello, Mr. Richardson, I—"

"YOU SLUT!"

The word exploded through the speaker so loudly I had to jerk the phone away from my ear.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Richardson," I said quietly, keeping my voice as steady as I could manage. "I was actually just about to call you to discuss…"

"To hell with you and your stupid greetings," he snarled, cutting me off with the efficiency of a man who'd perfected the art of cruelty through years of practice. "Your payment was due one week ago. One week, Miss Rose. So why haven't I received an alert from my accountant that the money has been transferred? Why am I wasting my valuable time calling you instead of watching my account balance increase?"

"I can explain," I started, hating how small my voice sounded. 

"If your explanation is just going to be another one of your pathetic, sob-story excuses about your dying mother and your tragic life, then save your breath," he snapped. "I have no interest in hearing it. I want my money, Miss Rose. That's all I've ever wanted from you. So either you pay me what you owe, or I'll be forced to send my people to collect it in other ways. And you know what happens to people who mess with me, don't you?"

I shivered, my entire body going cold despite the summer heat filtering through my apartment window.

I did know what happened.

I'd heard the stories. I saw the aftermath once, when a neighbor two buildings down had borrowed from Richardson and couldn't pay. They'd found him in an alley three days later, barely alive, missing two fingers and most of his teeth.

Death would have been kinder.

Torture was Richardson's specialty.

And I'd known that—known it with absolute certainty—when I'd signed his contract six months ago. But I'd been desperate. My mother had been dying. The hospital had been threatening to discharge her. And Richardson had been the only person willing to give me the kind of money I needed without asking too many questions.

"You have forty-eight hours," he said, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. "Maximum. After that, I'll come find you myself. And trust me, Miss Rose, you don't want that. You really, really don't want that."

The call ended with a sharp click that felt like a door slamming shut on my future.

I collapsed onto my bed, the phone slipping from my fingers as tears spilled down my cheeks in hot, angry rivers. This wasn't how I'd envisioned my life going ten years after I'd left Willow Creek. This hadn't been anywhere near my vision board for the past decade.

By now, I was supposed to have the bookstore I'd dreamed about since I was sixteen. The cozy little shop with floor-to-ceiling shelves and a reading nook by the window where customers could curl up with coffee and get lost in stories that had nothing to do with debt collectors and dying parents. I was supposed to be happy. Settled. Maybe even in love with someone who didn't make me feel like I needed to apologize for taking up space.

Instead, here I was at thirty-four, drowning in debts I'd never be able to repay, watching my mother die by inches because I couldn't afford to keep her alive.

My gaze drifted to the photograph on my bedside table. The one I'd kept all these years despite everything. It was old now, the edges worn from being touched too many times, the colors fading to sepia. But I could still make out our faces clearly enough.

Me. My father. My mother.

We looked happy. Genuinely, beautifully happy in a way I could barely remember feeling anymore.

That photo had been taken before everything fell apart. Before Grayson Holt destroyed me so completely, I'd had to flee the only home I'd ever known. Before my father defended me, stood by me, and refused to let the shame of what happened break our family.

He'd supported me through it all, even when the entire town turned their backs on us. Even when the church asked us to leave. Even when his business suffered because people didn't want to be associated with the man whose daughter had been involved in "that scandal."

And then he'd died three years later from a sudden heart attack.

Leaving me alone with a mother whose grief had manifested as illness and debts that seemed to multiply every time I closed my eyes.

I stared at the photo until my vision blurred again, until I couldn't tell if the wetness on my cheeks was new tears or old ones that had never really dried.

Four hundred thousand dollars in less than forty-eight hours.

My mother's life depended on me figuring out a solution.

My own life was on the line too.

I shivered as I imagined what Richardson would do to me when those forty-eight hours expired. The stories I'd heard weren't just rumors. They were warnings. Promises of what happened when you crossed a man who measured human life in dollars and cents.

No.

I couldn't let that happen.

I wouldn't.

I picked up my phone with shaking hands and scrolled through my contacts until I found the name I'd sworn I'd never call. The person I'd avoided for months because reaching out to her would mean admitting just how far I'd fallen.

Cynthia Harper.

My oldest friend. The only person from Willow Creek who'd stayed in touch after I left, who'd checked in on me over the years with texts I rarely answered and invitations I always declined.

She answered on the first ring, her voice bright and warm and so genuinely happy to hear from me that I almost started crying again.

"Eva! Oh my god, I'm so glad you called! I was literally just thinking about you. How are you? How's your mom? Are you getting excited for Christmas? Please tell me you're finally coming home this year. I've been begging you forever."

I wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. Not even close. Every second I spent on small talk was a second I didn't have.

"Cynthia," I said, cutting through her enthusiasm like a knife. "I want to do it."

"Do what, exactly?"

"You know what," I said, my voice steadier now. "The thing you mentioned last year. The auction. I want to participate."

The squeal that erupted from the other end was so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear again.

"Oh my god! Oh my god, Eva, are you serious? Are you actually serious right now? I've been trying to convince you to do this for years! What changed your mind?"

I couldn't tell her the truth. Couldn't explain that I was drowning in debt to a loan shark who would literally torture me to death if I didn't come up with four hundred thousand dollars in the next two days. Couldn't admit that I was so desperate I was willing to sell my body to strangers just to keep breathing.

"I just want to do something thrilling for once in my life," I lied, forcing lightness into my voice that I didn't feel. "I don't want to die a virgin, you know? Figured it was time to take some risks. Live a little."

Cynthia laughed, "I'm so proud of you! Seriously, Eva, this is amazing. And don't worry about anything, okay? All the men who participate in the auction are thoroughly vetted. They're young, hot, rich, and clean. No weirdos. No creeps. Just successful guys looking for a good time with consenting adults. You're going to have an incredible experience, I promise."

"I'm glad to hear that," I said, and meant it. At least if I was going to sell myself, it would be to someone who'd been background-checked.

"You know," Cynthia continued, her voice softening, "it's been ten years since you came back to Willow Creek. I know this won't be easy for you. Coming home, I mean. Are you sure you're ready?"

I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper.

The last time I'd seen Willow Creek was the night my father packed our car and drove me out of town while I sobbed in the passenger seat, my face still swollen from his slap, my entire life reduced to two suitcases and a backpack.

That was the night Grayson Holt's cruelty had finally succeeded in breaking me completely.

But ten years had passed since then. People forgot. Moved on. Found new scandals to obsess over.

The photo of me was probably buried so deep in the internet archives that no one would even remember it existed.

And Grayson? He'd probably forgotten all about me. Forgotten the different, creative ways he'd ruined my life for four years straight. He was probably married by now, with a beautiful wife and perfect children and a mansion in the nice part of town. Living his best life while I drowned in the wreckage of mine.

A lot of time had passed.

But I hadn't forgotten.

Not a single moment of what he'd done to me.

Not a single word he'd said.

"I'm ready," I told Cynthia, even though I wasn't sure if I was lying or telling the truth. "When do you need me there?"

"The auction is on Christmas Eve, which is tomorrow evening," she said. "So come home early. We'll get you settled, go over everything you need to know, and make sure you're comfortable. And Eva? I'm really glad you're coming home for Christmas. It's been too long."