I woke with my cheek pressed to cold silk sheets, my body still humming from the memory of Arthur’s hands. The phone rang—a shrill, insistent sound—and for a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, willing the world to leave me alone. It didn’t. The nurse’s voice was crisp, professional. "The payment’s been processed, Ms. Stark. Your mother’s surgery is scheduled for Thursday." I sat up too fast, the sheets pooling at my waist. "Who—?" "Anonymous," she said, and the word settled like a stone in my gut. Michael. It had to be Michael. No one else would—no. Arthur wouldn’t. Not after last night, not after the way he’d looked at me, like I was something to be tolerated, not saved. I dressed in a hurry, my fingers fumbling with buttons, my reflection in the mirror a stranger—dark circles, bitten lips, a body that didn’t feel like mine anymore. The elevator ride down was silent. The city outside was louder, all honking cars and chattering strangers, the world moving o
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