He Asked If I Loved Him. I Sent Him an Invoice

The shove was harder than I'd expected. I stumbled half a step, barely managing to catch myself against the edge of the marble console table. Lewis Delgado didn't even look back. He walked straight toward Clarissa Simmons, took the limited-edition Birkin from her hand, and placed it carefully on the cabinet beside the entrance. Then he turned to face me. "Who the hell said you could leave?" His voice was cold. I straightened my blouse and looked at him without speaking. A mocking smile curled across his lips. "Did you forget what you signed three years ago, Abigail?" He slipped one hand into his pocket. "Supplemental Clause Ten. It was written clearly enough that even you should remember it." I frowned slightly. Lewis continued, deliberately emphasizing each word. "Until Party A formally authorizes termination, Party B shall remain obligated to provide services for an additional three-month transition period, with renewal occurring automatically upon request." He paused, watching my reaction. "You signed that contract willingly." Of course I remembered. Three years ago, when the Fox family's fifty-million-dollar debt had been hanging over my head, I'd signed whatever paperwork Lewis's lawyers put in front of me. Back then, the Delgado family controlled half the underground casinos and private gambling clubs in New York. Refusing the heir to that empire hadn't exactly been an option. Lewis tilted his chin toward Clarissa. "Clarissa just returned from Italy. She's been through a lot, and she doesn't handle stress well." Clarissa lowered her eyes, looking appropriately delicate. "Her health hasn't been great lately," Lewis added. "I don't want her dealing with unnecessary trouble." He looked back at me. "And I'm not going to find someone I trust to look after her overnight." His tone turned commanding. "Until I hire a suitable caretaker, you're staying here." I stared at him. He continued as though the matter had already been settled. "You'll prepare her meals, manage her schedule, and make sure she's comfortable. Whatever she needs, you'll take care of it." For a moment, I genuinely wondered whether I'd misheard him. Three years as his mistress. Three years playing the perfect companion at Mafia gatherings, entertaining dangerous men, and pretending not to notice whenever he whispered Clarissa's name in his sleep. And now that his precious first love had returned, he wanted me to become her personal servant. I blinked. "Mr. Delgado." He raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you just tell me you couldn't stand having another woman in this house?" His expression darkened. I tilted my head. "Wouldn't my presence make Miss Simmons uncomfortable?" Lewis didn't answer. He simply stared at me with those cold, dark eyes that had frightened grown men into silence during family negotiations. I knew that look. It meant he expected obedience. Unfortunately for him, I'd spent three years learning exactly how much his expectations were worth. I took a slow breath. Then I reached into my handbag and pulled out my calculator. The screen flickered to life. "Very well." Lewis narrowed his eyes. I pressed a few buttons. "But that'll cost extra." His jaw tightened. "Abigail." "Personal care services weren't included in my original contract," I explained pleasantly. "And providing specialized assistance to the daughter of an allied Mafia family carries additional liability." I glanced toward Clarissa. "Especially someone as delicate as Miss Simmons." Her smile stiffened. I looked back at Lewis. "I'll prepare a revised fee schedule. Naturally, the three-month extension will be billed separately." Lewis stared at me for several seconds. Then he gave a humorless laugh. "You're unbelievable." I smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Delgado." He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but Clarissa gently caught his sleeve. "Lewis, please. Don't argue because of me." His expression softened immediately. I lowered my eyes to the calculator. Apparently, the arrangement was settled. If Lewis wanted to keep me in the Delgado penthouse for another three months, I would stay. But every additional service would have a price. And this time, I intended to charge him for every single inconvenience. The following morning, I woke at exactly six. The penthouse was still quiet. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan lay beneath a pale winter sky. The streets below were nearly empty, and the private security guards stationed outside the building were just beginning their morning shift. I changed into a simple blouse and trousers, tied my hair back, and headed downstairs. The kitchen was spotless. Everything was exactly where I'd left it. After three years in the Delgado household, I knew the place better than most of the staff. I also knew Lewis's habits down to the smallest detail. He had a chronic stomach condition, made worse by years of drinking expensive whiskey during late-night meetings with Mafia associates. His doctors had warned him repeatedly to stop skipping meals. Naturally, he ignored them. So I'd developed a morning routine to keep his stomach from acting up. Freshly prepared black soybean milk, served warm. A toasted sandwich with eggs and a light filling. Nothing too greasy. Nothing too cold. Everything had to be ready before his first meeting of the day. Clarissa had her own requirements. According to the medical information Lewis had given me, she suffered from low blood sugar. No matter how late she slept, she was supposed to have something nourishing prepared for her when she woke. Lewis had specifically requested bird's nest soup, a delicacy Clarissa had apparently grown fond of during her travels. So I prepared that as well. By seven, the kitchen counters were lined with neatly arranged dishes. The soybean milk was warm. The sandwiches were fresh. Clarissa's soup sat in a covered porcelain bowl, ready to be served. I checked the time. Everything was running according to schedule. It was almost amusing. I'd graduated with a finance degree and spent years negotiating acquisitions for one of New York's most powerful crime families. I'd handled transactions worth hundreds of millions of dollars. Yet here I was, preparing breakfast for a Mafia heir and the woman he'd spent three years pining over. Still, work was work. And now that I'd decided to treat every minute as billable, I found the arrangement considerably easier to tolerate. At seven thirty sharp, footsteps sounded on the staircase. Lewis appeared. He wore a custom-tailored charcoal suit, the kind his family's personal tailor delivered directly to the penthouse. His dark hair was still slightly damp from the shower. A silk tie hung loosely around his neck, completely unknotted. He walked into the dining room without greeting me. I continued slicing fruit behind the kitchen island. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him stop. For three years, our mornings had followed the same routine. Lewis would come downstairs with his tie hanging loose. I'd put down whatever I was doing, walk over, and straighten his collar. Then I'd rise onto my toes and knot his tie for him. Sometimes he'd rest a hand on my waist. Sometimes he'd complain that I was taking too long. And sometimes, if he'd slept badly, he'd simply stand there in silence while I fixed everything. I'd called it my Warm Morning Service. Two thousand dollars per occurrence. At the time, Lewis had never known I was keeping track. Today, however, I had no intention of providing complimentary labor. I kept my head down and continued slicing strawberries. Lewis pulled out a dining chair and sat. A moment passed. Then another. He glanced at the empty place setting in front of him. Then at me. "Tie." One word. No greeting. No request. Just an order. I placed the knife on the cutting board. Then I washed and dried my hands. Lewis watched me approach, his expression relaxing slightly. He probably assumed I'd finally remembered my place. I stopped in front of him. But instead of reaching for his tie, I took out my phone. A few taps later, I opened a payment request and held the screen toward him. "Tie-knotting service. Two thousand dollars per session." I smiled politely. "Mr. Delgado, payment first." Lewis went completely still. His eyes moved from my face to the payment screen. Then back again. For several seconds, he didn't speak. I waited patiently. Finally, his chest rose with a sharp breath. "Abigail Fox." He pronounced my full name slowly. "Are you really that obsessed with money?" I blinked. "Not obsessed, Mr. Delgado." I held the phone steady. "Just maintaining professional standards." His eyes narrowed. I added, "No credit." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "You've tied my tie every morning for three years." "Correct." "And now you're charging me for it?" "Also correct." His expression grew colder. I glanced at the silk tie hanging around his neck. "Would you like to proceed with the service?" Lewis stared at me as though he were deciding whether to throw my phone across the room. Before he could answer, soft footsteps sounded from the staircase. "Lewis?" Clarissa's voice floated into the dining room. We both turned. She descended the stairs wearing a pale silk nightgown, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Her cheeks were slightly flushed from sleep. Even without makeup, she looked carefully delicate, like a porcelain doll someone had placed inside the Delgado penthouse for safekeeping. "Lewis, are you two arguing already?" Her voice carried a note of innocent concern. She walked toward him and glanced at the payment screen in my hand. Then she smiled. "Oh, Abigail." Her tone was gentle, almost sympathetic. "There's really no need to make such a fuss over a tie." I lowered my phone. Clarissa stepped closer to Lewis. "Here, let me help." She reached for the silk tie around his neck as naturally as though she'd been doing it for years. Then she looked at me. "Abigail used to be a society girl, didn't she?" Her smile widened. "She was raised around wealthy families. I'm sure she's not really suited to this sort of work." I looked at her. The words sounded considerate. But the implication was obvious. She was reminding me that I'd once belonged to New York's upper class, before the Fox family's financial troubles forced me into the Delgado household. And now, in her eyes, I'd been reduced to serving the man who loved her. I didn't bother correcting her. Instead, I stepped aside. "Of course, Miss Simmons." Clarissa smiled sweetly. She rose onto her toes and began working on Lewis's tie. Her fingers moved awkwardly. First, she crossed the narrow end over the wide one. Then she pulled the wrong section through the loop. The silk twisted. She frowned and tried again. Lewis stood perfectly still. But I noticed something interesting. His eyes weren't on Clarissa. They were on me. I pretended not to notice. Clarissa made a second attempt. The knot came out loose and crooked. She tugged at it, accidentally pulling Lewis's collar out of place. "Oh, no." She laughed softly. "That doesn't look right." She started over. The third attempt was even worse. The tie hung lopsided against his shirt, with one end noticeably longer than the other. Clarissa pouted. "Ugh, why is this so difficult?" She looked up at Lewis, sticking out her tongue playfully. "Lewis, am I completely hopeless?" I glanced at the crooked knot. For someone who'd supposedly spent years attending formal events with the Italian Mafia's elite, she was remarkably unfamiliar with men's neckties. But that wasn't my concern. Lewis finally looked away from me. His expression softened as he gazed down at her. "It's fine." He caught her hands gently. "I'm not in a rush." Then he moved behind her fingers, guiding them through the knot. "Here. Bring this end across first." Clarissa giggled. "Like this?" "That's right." He adjusted her hands. "Now pull it through." They stood close together, their faces only inches apart. Clarissa's perfume mingled with the familiar scent of Lewis's cologne. Their voices dropped to intimate murmurs. I stood beside the kitchen island and checked my watch. Seven forty-five. Fifteen minutes. They'd spent fifteen minutes turning a simple necktie into a romantic performance. I cleared my throat. "Mr. Delgado. Miss Simmons." Neither responded immediately. I continued in a perfectly professional tone. "According to the revised service arrangement, my scheduled duties begin once breakfast service commences." Lewis slowly lifted his eyes. I glanced at the tie. "Since you're currently conducting a private tutorial, my assistance doesn't appear necessary." I slipped my phone into my pocket. "I'll return to my room until I'm needed." Then I turned toward the hallway. I'd barely taken two steps when Lewis spoke. "Stop." His voice cut through the dining room. I stopped. Slowly, I turned around. "Yes, Mr. Delgado?" He was still standing beside Clarissa. The tie remained crooked around his neck. His expression, however, had lost every trace of tenderness. "Come here." I walked back toward the dining table. Lewis pointed toward the covered porcelain bowl. "Clarissa's breakfast." I glanced at the bird's nest soup. "It's ready." "I can see that." His eyes hardened. "Feed her." For a moment, I thought I'd misunderstood. I looked from the bowl to Clarissa. Then back to Lewis. "Feed her?" "Did I stutter?" His voice was quiet, but the threat beneath it was unmistakable. "Clarissa's hands are delicate. I don't want her handling hot dishes." I glanced at her perfectly manicured fingers. They looked entirely capable of holding a spoon. Clarissa immediately lowered her eyes. A faint blush crept across her cheeks. "Lewis, that's really not necessary." She touched his arm. "I can eat by myself. You don't have to trouble Abigail." Lewis didn't even look at her. His gaze remained fixed on me. "Let her do it." Clarissa hesitated. "But..." "She's being paid to work." He spoke each word slowly. "Then she can do the damn job." I looked at him. For three years, I'd endured his coldness, his temper, and his constant reminders that I was nothing more than a substitute for the woman he truly wanted. Now Clarissa was finally here. And apparently, Lewis still wasn't satisfied. He wanted me standing beside them, watching him pamper her while I performed the duties of a servant. He wanted to remind me exactly where I stood in the Delgado household. I lowered my eyes to the untouched bowl of soup. Then I looked back at him. My expression remained perfectly calm. After all, Lewis Delgado had made one thing very clear. He was paying for my services. And I had no intention of giving him anything for free.

I walked to the dining table and picked up the porcelain bowl of steaming bird's nest soup. The delicate white bowl was warm against my fingers. I stirred the soup slowly, watching thin wisps of steam rise from its surface. Then I scooped up a small spoonful and held it in front of Clarissa Simmons. "Miss Simmons, your breakfast." Clarissa glanced at Lewis. Only after he gave her a reassuring look did she lean forward and part her lips. But the instant the spoon touched her mouth, she jerked backward. "Ah!" Her hand shot out, striking the bowl I was holding. "It's burning!" The porcelain slipped from my fingers. A sharp crash echoed through the dining room. The bowl shattered against the Italian marble floor, sending hot soup splashing in every direction. Most of it landed directly on the back of my right hand and wrist. Pain shot through my skin. I sucked in a breath. Within seconds, the affected skin had turned an angry red. Clarissa stumbled backward, clutching her chest. "Oh my God!" Her eyes immediately filled with tears. "Abigail, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to do that!" She looked toward Lewis, her voice trembling. "It was just so hot. I got scared..." Before she'd even finished speaking, Lewis had pulled her into his arms. "Clarissa!" His voice was tight with concern. "Are you hurt?" He cupped her face, examining her lips and cheeks. Then he checked her neck and hands. "Did it burn you anywhere?" Clarissa shook her head weakly. "I don't think so." "Are you sure?" She nodded, her eyes glistening. "I'm okay, Lewis. I just got frightened." Only after confirming she hadn't suffered so much as a red mark did Lewis finally turn toward me. I was still standing beside the table. The back of my hand throbbed. Two blisters had already begun swelling beneath the reddened skin. Lewis's gaze dropped to them. For one brief second, he looked directly at the burns. Then he looked away. "You can't even manage something this simple?" His voice was cold. I stared at him. He gestured toward the broken porcelain. "Clean up the mess." That was all. No concern. No question about whether I needed medical attention. Not even an acknowledgment that Clarissa had knocked the bowl from my hands. I lowered my injured hand. The swollen skin brushed against my sleeve, sending another sharp sting through my wrist. My fingers trembled slightly. But I kept my expression neutral. "Of course, Mr. Delgado." I crouched beside the shattered bowl. Pieces of fine porcelain lay scattered across the marble, mixed with the spilled soup. I began collecting the fragments. The first sharp edge sliced into my fingertip. A thin line of blood appeared. Then another shard nicked the side of my thumb. I didn't make a sound. Behind me, Lewis was still comforting Clarissa. "Don't worry about it," he murmured. "You didn't do anything wrong." Clarissa sniffled. "But Abigail got hurt..." "She'll manage." I paused for half a second. Then I continued picking up the broken pieces. I'd spent three years taking care of Lewis Delgado. I'd negotiated with dangerous Mafia associates, attended meetings where men carried loaded guns beneath their jackets, and endured countless humiliations to protect the Fox family's interests. And now, apparently, I wasn't even worth a moment of concern after being burned in his own dining room. I gathered the last shard and stood. Blood had smeared across my fingertips. My wrist was still throbbing. But there was one thing I knew with absolute certainty. The cost of treating these burns would be added to my invoice. At eight o'clock that evening, the Delgado mansion was blazing with light. A private banquet had been arranged to celebrate Clarissa Simmons's return from Italy. The guest list included senior members of the Delgado organization, influential figures from New York's Five Families, wealthy financiers with ties to the underworld, and several society women who had spent years competing for the attention of Mafia heirs. Luxury vehicles lined the circular driveway. Armed security stood at every entrance. Inside, crystal chandeliers illuminated the grand ballroom, where waiters circulated with champagne and a live string quartet played beside the marble staircase. It was exactly the kind of event I'd attended countless times as Lewis's companion. Except tonight, I wouldn't be standing beside him. Earlier that afternoon, Lewis had handed me a black staff uniform. "Put this on." I'd looked at the neatly folded fabric. "What is it?" "Your uniform." He hadn't bothered looking up from his phone. "Clarissa's welcome banquet starts at eight. You'll help serve drinks and direct the guests." I studied him for a moment. "You're assigning me to the catering staff?" Lewis finally raised his eyes. "You're staying here under the transition clause, aren't you?" His mouth curved into a mocking smile. "Then make yourself useful." I accepted the uniform without arguing. After all, the contract said I was required to provide services. It didn't say I had to enjoy them. And every hour would be billed accordingly. By the time the first guests arrived, I'd changed into the black uniform and tied my hair into a neat bun. A narrow apron rested against my waist. I balanced a silver tray of champagne flutes on one palm and stepped into the ballroom. It didn't take long for people to recognize me. Whispers followed me almost immediately. "Isn't that Abigail Fox?" "She used to be Lewis Delgado's woman." "I heard Clarissa Simmons came back from Italy yesterday." "So he finally got rid of the substitute?" A woman laughed softly. "Looks like he didn't even bother sending her away. He made her a servant." Another voice joined in. "Well, the Fox family went bankrupt years ago. What else is she supposed to do?" I walked past them without changing my expression. Three years ago, those same people had smiled at me, complimented my dresses, and asked me to introduce them to Lewis. Now they looked at me as though I were part of the evening's entertainment. The fallen Fox heiress. The discarded mistress of a Mafia heir. The woman who'd gone from sharing the boss's bed to serving drinks at his banquet. Apparently, humiliation was the main attraction. I was passing a group of guests near the bar when someone deliberately stepped into my path. A shoulder struck mine. The tray tilted. Champagne sloshed over the rim of one glass, spilling across the silver surface. "Oh!" A woman in a fitted red dress covered her mouth. "Well, well. Look who it is." I looked up. Beth Finch. The daughter of a wealthy businessman who handled investments for several families connected to the New York underworld. Two years earlier, Beth had tried to get close to Lewis at a private casino gathering. When she'd become too aggressive, Lewis had ordered me to smooth things over. I'd ended up drinking three shots of strong liquor on her behalf while she sat there laughing. Now she was looking at my uniform with open delight. "Abigail Fox." Her smile widened. "What happened, sweetheart?" She glanced at my apron. "Didn't Lewis give you a decent severance package?" A few people nearby chuckled. Beth tilted her head. "Or did he decide you weren't worth the trouble?" I looked at the spilled champagne. Then I took a clean cloth from my apron and calmly wiped the tray. "Miss Finch." My voice was perfectly polite. "The champagne being served tonight is a limited vintage from the Delgado family's private cellar." Beth raised an eyebrow. "So?" "Ten thousand dollars per bottle." I inspected the glass. "You just caused approximately half a glass to spill." Her smile faltered. I looked back at her. "Five thousand dollars in damages." I folded the cloth neatly. "Would you prefer to pay by card or bank transfer?" For a moment, Beth simply stared at me. Then her face flushed. "Are you out of your mind?" I blinked. "Not at all." I shifted the tray slightly. "I'm simply following the household's financial procedures." Beth gave an incredulous laugh. "You expect me to pay you five thousand dollars because you can't carry a tray properly?" "You struck my shoulder, Miss Finch." "That's ridiculous!" I nodded toward the center of the ballroom. "You're welcome to dispute the charge with my employer." Beth followed my gaze. Lewis stood near the grand staircase, surrounded by several high-ranking members of the Delgado family. I continued pleasantly. "Mr. Delgado takes losses involving his private collection very seriously." Her expression changed. "Under the household's damage policy, he may deduct the amount from my wages. However, he generally requires the responsible party to reimburse ten times the original loss." I smiled. "That would be fifty thousand dollars." Beth's mouth fell open. I held out the tray. "Would you like me to call his financial manager?" She glared at me. "You..." I waited. For several seconds, she seemed to search for something suitably insulting to say. Then she turned sharply and walked away. I watched her disappear into the crowd. A few nearby guests quickly looked elsewhere. Apparently, humiliating a discarded mistress was entertaining only when it didn't involve paying for the privilege. I adjusted my tray and continued working. Across the ballroom, Lewis was making his rounds with Clarissa on his arm. He wore a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. His expression was relaxed, almost indulgent, as he introduced her to the senior members of his family's organization. Clarissa looked radiant. She wore a custom couture gown that shimmered beneath the chandeliers. Her hair had been swept into an elegant updo, exposing the graceful curve of her neck. And around that neck hung a sapphire necklace. My steps slowed. I knew that necklace. I knew every detail of it. The deep blue sapphire at its center. The delicate platinum setting. The small diamonds arranged around the stone like scattered stars. It had belonged to my mother. She'd worn it to charity dinners, family celebrations, and important business gatherings when the Fox family was still prosperous. When I was little, I used to stand beside her dressing table and watch her fasten it around her neck. She'd always smiled at my reflection in the mirror. "One day, Abigail, this will be yours." And eventually, it had been. It was one of the few things I'd managed to keep after my father's financial collapse. But when the Delgado family's creditors began closing in, I'd been forced to pawn it to Lewis. It was the most valuable possession I'd ever surrendered. I'd told myself I would buy it back once the debt was settled. I hadn't expected to see it again like this. Hanging around Clarissa Simmons's neck. A gift from the man who'd taken it as collateral. I stood near the edge of the ballroom, watching the sapphire catch the light. Every time Clarissa moved, the stone flashed a brilliant, familiar blue. For a moment, I remembered my mother's hands fastening the clasp behind her neck. Then the memory faded. The necklace was no longer mine. I'd signed it over as part of the debt arrangement. Legally, Lewis could do whatever he wanted with it. Even give it to the woman he'd spent three years loving. I tightened my grip on the tray. Across the room, Lewis suddenly turned his head. His eyes found mine. For a moment, we stared at each other through the crowd. Then his gaze dropped briefly to Clarissa's necklace. When he looked back at me, a faint smirk curved his lips. He lifted his champagne glass. A distant, mocking salute. As though he were asking whether I finally understood my place. I didn't react. I simply looked away. But Clarissa had already noticed. She followed Lewis's line of sight and spotted me standing near the wall. Then she leaned closer and whispered something into his ear. Lewis listened. A moment later, he nodded. Clarissa smiled. She handed her glass to a passing waiter, gathered the hem of her gown, and began walking toward me. I remained where I was. She stopped directly in front of me. "Abigail." Her voice was warm and sweet. "You're working so hard tonight." I gave her a professional smile. "Good evening, Miss Simmons." Her fingers rose to the sapphire necklace. She stroked the stone lightly. "Actually, there's something I've been meaning to ask you." I waited. Clarissa tilted her head. "Lewis told me this necklace used to belong to your mother." My gaze dropped to the sapphire. "That's correct." Her smile brightened. "It's absolutely beautiful." She ran her fingers along the platinum chain. "I've never seen a sapphire quite like it." I said nothing. "Lewis told me the story behind it." Her voice softened. "He said your family had to give it up when things became difficult." She looked at me with an expression of carefully arranged sympathy. "That must have been heartbreaking." I kept my face neutral. Clarissa continued. "But Lewis said he's giving it to me as a welcome-home present." She smiled. "I love it so much." Then she paused. "You don't mind, do you?" I looked at the necklace. For a brief moment, I could almost hear my mother's voice. One day, Abigail, this will be yours. I pushed the memory aside. "It's Mr. Delgado's property now." My voice was quiet. "He can give it to whomever he chooses." Clarissa studied me. "So you really don't mind?" "It has nothing to do with me anymore." Her smile widened. "That's such a relief." She touched the sapphire once more. "I was worried you might feel uncomfortable seeing me wear it." I didn't answer. Apparently satisfied, Clarissa turned toward a passing waiter and picked up a glass of red wine. "Well, in that case..." She raised the glass slightly. "Let me toast you." I glanced at her. She smiled with innocent sincerity. "Consider it a thank-you for taking such good care of Lewis all these years." A few nearby guests turned to watch. Clarissa extended the wineglass toward me. I shifted my tray to my other hand. Then I reached out to accept it. My fingertips had barely touched the stem when Clarissa suddenly loosened her grip. And the glass slipped from her fingers.

The wineglass never reached my hand. Clarissa's fingers opened just as mine brushed the stem. The glass slipped between us and struck the front of her white couture gown. Red wine spread across the expensive fabric, blooming like blood against freshly fallen snow. "Ah!" Clarissa let out a piercing scream. She staggered backward two steps, then collapsed onto the marble floor, her legs folding beneath her. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the Delgado mansion's ballroom. Within seconds, the entire room fell silent. The string quartet stopped playing. Conversations died mid-sentence. Dozens of guests turned toward us, their expressions shifting from surprise to open curiosity. I stood perfectly still, the silver serving tray balanced in my left hand. I'd barely touched the glass. Clarissa had let go before I could take it. But judging by the way she was sitting on the floor, trembling and staring at her stained gown, anyone would have thought I'd deliberately thrown the wine at her. "Clarissa!" Lewis's voice cut through the silence. He pushed past two senior members of the Delgado organization and strode toward us. The crowd parted immediately. After all, nobody wanted to stand in the way of the Delgado family's heir when he was angry. Lewis dropped to one knee beside Clarissa. He caught her by the shoulders and helped her to her feet. "What happened?" His voice was low and dangerous. His gaze swept over her disheveled appearance, the wine soaking into her white dress, and the tiny fragments of glass scattered across the floor. "Are you hurt?" Clarissa shook her head. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "Lewis..." She clutched his sleeve. "It's not Abigail's fault." I almost smiled. There it was. The familiar opening line. Lewis frowned. "What do you mean?" Clarissa lowered her head, her voice trembling. "I didn't hold the glass tightly enough. Abigail was only trying to take it from me." She sniffled. "Maybe..." She hesitated, then touched the sapphire necklace resting against her collarbone. "Maybe she just couldn't bear to see me wearing her mother's necklace." A few guests exchanged knowing looks. Someone whispered my name. Clarissa hurriedly shook her head. "But I understand, Lewis. It belonged to her mother. Of course she'd be upset." She looked at me with tear-filled eyes. "I'm sorry, Abigail. I shouldn't have worn it tonight." Lewis's head snapped toward me. His expression turned ice-cold. I met his gaze without flinching. I could have told him exactly what had happened. I could have explained that Clarissa had released the glass before my fingers closed around it. I could have reminded him that I'd spent three years serving wine at Delgado family functions without dropping a single glass. But what would have been the point? Lewis had already decided whom to believe. And explanations had never been included in my service agreement. "Apologize." His voice was quiet. I didn't move. Lewis straightened. "Abigail." He took one deliberate step toward me. "I said apologize." The guests around us watched in silence. Some looked uncomfortable. Others were openly enjoying themselves. For New York's Mafia elite, the evening had suddenly become far more entertaining than an ordinary welcome-home banquet. The discarded mistress of the Delgado heir was about to be publicly humiliated. Lewis looked down at my black staff uniform. "You're working as a server tonight." His lips curled. "You spilled wine on a guest's dress." He glanced at Clarissa. "Don't you think you owe her an apology?" I stared at him. Then I began calculating. The Fox family's debt had finally been paid off, but Lewis still owed me my final salary, outstanding commissions, and the compensation I'd earned under our agreement. If I refused to apologize, he'd probably find some excuse to withhold the remaining payments. Worse, he might use the incident to complicate the settlement of my mother's necklace. I couldn't afford another financial dispute with the Delgado family. Not now. Not when my father was still receiving treatment at a private hospital. I looked at the wine staining Clarissa's gown. Then at the smug faces surrounding us. Dignity was expensive. Unfortunately, it didn't pay hospital bills. I lowered the tray onto a nearby table. Then I bent forward. A full ninety degrees. "I'm sorry, Miss Simmons." My voice was steady enough to carry across the silent ballroom. "My hand slipped, and your dress was stained." I paused. "I'll take responsibility for the dry-cleaning costs." For several seconds, nobody spoke. Lewis stared at me. Perhaps he'd expected me to argue. Perhaps he'd wanted tears, excuses, or a desperate plea for him to believe me. Instead, I'd given him exactly what he'd demanded. A professional apology. Nothing more. Then a cold laugh escaped his throat. "Dry-cleaning costs?" I slowly straightened. Lewis looked me up and down. "You think you can afford to compensate Clarissa for that dress?" I didn't answer. He turned toward the banquet table. Before anyone could react, he picked up an open bottle of expensive red wine. A few guests stepped back. Lewis returned to stand directly in front of me. His expression was almost bored. "You said you'd take responsibility." I looked at the bottle in his hand. "Lewis..." He raised it. Then he tipped it over my head. Cold red wine poured directly onto my hair. For one stunned second, I couldn't breathe. The liquid ran down my scalp and across my forehead. It soaked my eyelashes, streamed into my eyes, and slid over my cheeks. The sharp smell of alcohol filled my nose. I pressed my lips together, but some of the wine still seeped into my mouth. It was bitter and sour. The fabric of my black uniform clung to my shoulders as the wine soaked through. I stood motionless. Around us, the ballroom remained silent. Nobody intervened. Not the wealthy guests. Not the senior Mafia figures who'd spent years watching me accompany Lewis to their private gatherings. Not even the servants who knew how much work I'd done for this household. The bottle finally emptied. Lewis lowered his hand. "That's what taking responsibility looks like." He placed the empty bottle on the table. The glass made a soft, deliberate sound against the polished surface. I kept my eyes closed. Wine continued dripping from my hair, running down my neck and into my collar. My burned wrist throbbed beneath my sleeve. The skin was still blistered from that morning. Now the alcohol stung the injured area, making the pain almost unbearable. But I didn't cry. I waited until the last stream of wine had stopped. Then I slowly opened my eyes. Lewis was watching me. His expression was unreadable. I raised my uninjured hand and wiped the wine from my face. "Understood, Mr. Delgado." My voice was calm. I looked directly at him. "Are we even now?" Something flickered across his face. For a moment, he seemed to have forgotten what he wanted to say. Then Clarissa called his name softly. "Lewis..." He immediately turned toward her. I picked up my serving tray. Without another word, I walked away. Behind me, the string quartet eventually resumed playing. The guests began talking again. Laughter returned to the ballroom. And just like that, my humiliation became another amusing story for New York's criminal elite to share over champagne. By the time the banquet ended, I was shaking. My hair was sticky with dried wine. My uniform smelled of alcohol. The burns on my right hand had swollen, and every movement sent a sharp sting through my wrist. But the worst part was the exhaustion. For days, I'd barely slept. Between negotiating the final settlement of the Fox family's debt, managing Lewis's demands, and dealing with Clarissa's arrival, I'd been running on coffee and sheer determination. My body had finally reached its limit. That evening, Clarissa developed a high fever. At least, that was what the household staff said. Apparently, the shock of having wine spilled on her gown had been too much for her delicate constitution. Lewis immediately summoned the Delgado family's entire private medical team. Within an hour, two physicians, several nurses, and a specialist had arrived at the mansion. The second floor was filled with quiet footsteps and urgent instructions. Lewis remained at Clarissa's bedside the entire time. He ordered the staff to keep the house silent. He had fresh flowers brought to her room. He even canceled a late-night meeting with two of the family's most important capos. All because Clarissa had developed a fever. I had one too. By the time I returned to the small servants' quarters at the back of the mansion, my skin was burning. My head throbbed. I took a quick shower, but the dried wine had irritated my already injured hand. After wrapping the burns as best I could, I changed into clean clothes and collapsed onto the narrow bed. There was no doctor waiting for me. No nurse checking my temperature. Nobody even knew I was sick. I lay beneath the thin blanket, staring at the ceiling. The contrast was almost funny. Clarissa Simmons had spilled a glass of wine and received an entire medical team. I'd been scalded, cut, and publicly drenched in alcohol. And I was lying alone in a servant's room. I closed my eyes. Just three more months, I told myself. Once the transition period ended and Lewis settled every outstanding payment, I'd leave the Delgado family behind for good. I wouldn't have to see him again. I wouldn't have to hear Clarissa's name. And I wouldn't have to spend another night pretending that being treated like property was normal. At ten o'clock, my phone vibrated. The sharp buzzing dragged me out of a feverish sleep. I reached for it with my uninjured hand. An unfamiliar number appeared on the screen. I almost ignored it. Then I noticed the hospital's caller ID. My stomach tightened. I answered immediately. "Hello?" "Am I speaking with Ms. Abigail Fox?" "Yes. This is Abigail." The woman on the other end sounded tense. "I'm calling from St. Catherine's Medical Center regarding your father." I sat up. "What happened?" There was a brief pause. "Ms. Fox, your father suffered a sudden cardiac arrest approximately ten minutes ago." My mind went blank. "What?" "His medical team is performing emergency resuscitation. The attending physician has determined that he may require immediate surgical intervention." I gripped the phone. "But he was getting better." My voice trembled. "The doctor told me his condition had stabilized." "I'm very sorry, Ms. Fox. His condition deteriorated unexpectedly." I pressed my free hand against my forehead. The room seemed to tilt. "Is he conscious?" "No, ma'am." "Can I speak to his doctor?" "The team is still working on him." I swallowed hard. Then the woman continued. "There's also an urgent financial matter." My heart sank. "The hospital requires an additional fifty-thousand-dollar surgical deposit to authorize the next stage of treatment." I stared at the wall. "Fifty thousand?" "Yes, Ms. Fox." Her voice softened. "We need the payment confirmed within thirty minutes." Thirty minutes. My fingers went numb. "Please," I whispered. "Don't stop treating him." "The emergency team is continuing resuscitation, but we need to resolve the payment authorization as quickly as possible." "I'll get the money." I forced the words out. "Please tell the doctor I'm arranging it right now." I ended the call. For several seconds, I sat motionless. Then I opened my banking app. My available balance appeared on the screen. $30,000. That was everything I had left. Every other dollar I'd earned had gone toward repaying the Fox family's debt. I'd spent three years working for Lewis, taking on dangerous negotiations, handling acquisitions for his organization, and enduring whatever humiliation he decided to throw at me. I'd finally cleared the fifty-million-dollar obligation. But my final wages and commissions still hadn't reached my account. Lewis's finance department was holding the remaining payment pending his authorization. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have waited. I knew the money was legally owed to me. I knew I had the documentation to prove it. But my father didn't have time for an accounting dispute. He was lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life. And I was twenty thousand dollars short. I pushed the blanket aside. The moment my feet touched the floor, dizziness washed over me. I grabbed the bedside table to steady myself. My vision blurred. For a few seconds, black spots danced at the edges of my sight. I waited until they faded. Then I stood. I didn't bother changing out of my plain clothes. I slipped my phone into my pocket and hurried out of the servants' quarters. The corridors were quiet. Most of the household staff had already retired for the night. I climbed the main staircase, gripping the banister with my uninjured hand. Each step made my head pound harder. By the time I reached the second floor, my breathing had become uneven. A faint strip of warm light spilled from the master bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. I stopped outside. Through the opening, I could see Lewis sitting on the edge of the enormous bed. Clarissa lay beneath a silk duvet, her cheeks flushed. Lewis held a glass of water against her lips. "Just a little more," he murmured. His voice was gentle. "That's it." Clarissa took a small sip. Then she shook her head weakly. "I don't want any more." "All right." Lewis placed the glass on the bedside table. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. "Get some rest. The doctor will check on you again soon." I stood in the doorway, watching. For three years, I'd never heard him speak to me like that when I was sick. Not once. But there was no time to think about it. I pushed the door open. "Lewis." He turned sharply. The tenderness vanished from his face. His eyebrows drew together. "Who told you to come in here?" I gripped the doorframe. My legs felt unsteady. "Lewis, I need to talk to you." "Get out." His voice was harsh. "Can't you see Clarissa's resting?" I swallowed. "Please. It's urgent." His expression darkened. "What now?" I looked directly at him. "Pay me my wages." He stared at me. "What?" "My outstanding salary and commissions." I tightened my grip on the doorframe. "I need you to release the payment tonight." Lewis looked at me as though I'd lost my mind. "Are you fucking serious?" He stood and lowered his voice. "You're barging into my bedroom at ten at night to demand money?" I took a shaky breath. "Yes." His jaw tightened. "Keep your voice down. Clarissa just fell asleep." Behind him, Clarissa shifted beneath the covers. I forced myself to remain calm. "Lewis, my father is in the hospital." He frowned. "Your father?" "He's suffered a cardiac arrest. They're trying to resuscitate him right now." My voice cracked. "The hospital needs a surgical deposit immediately." I looked into his eyes. "I'm not asking you for charity. I'm asking you to pay the money I've already earned." Lewis's expression turned cold. He walked toward me. For one brief moment, I thought he might finally listen. Instead, he grabbed my arm and pushed me backward into the hallway. "Out." I stumbled. Pain shot through my burned wrist. Before I could recover, Lewis stepped into the corridor and pulled the bedroom door shut behind him. The lock clicked. Now we were alone. He towered over me, his expression dark with irritation. "Your father's being resuscitated?" I nodded quickly. "Yes." Lewis gave a short, contemptuous laugh. "Abigail, do you really expect me to believe that?" My heart sank. "What?" "Last month, you told me your father was recovering." "He was." "And now, the moment you want money, he's suddenly dying?" His lips curled. "That's a pretty convenient story." I stared at him. For a moment, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Lewis, I'm telling you the truth." He folded his arms. "You expect me to believe your father had a medical emergency at exactly the moment you decided to demand payment?" I felt something inside me go cold. "He's in the hospital," I repeated. My voice was trembling now. "He's being resuscitated. You can call and verify it yourself." Lewis didn't move. I stepped closer and caught his sleeve. "Please." The word came out before I could stop it. I'd spent three years swallowing my pride in front of this man. I'd promised myself that once the Fox family's debt was settled, I'd never beg him for anything again. But my father was fighting for his life. And pride wasn't going to save him. "Just give me what you owe me." My fingers tightened around his sleeve. "I have thirty thousand dollars in my account. The hospital needs fifty." I looked up at him desperately. "Even twenty thousand would be enough." My voice broke. "Please, Lewis." I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I'm not asking for a favor." Tears blurred my vision. "It's my money." I held on to his sleeve. "Just let me have it so I can save my father."

Lewis Delgado looked down at my hand gripping his sleeve. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then his expression hardened. He jerked his arm away. The movement was so violent that I lost my balance. My shoulder slammed against the hallway wall, and I slid down onto the cold marble floor. Pain shot through my already burned wrist. I gasped, instinctively curling my injured hand against my chest. Lewis didn't even bend down. He stood above me, calmly straightening the cuffs of his custom-made shirt. "No." One word. Cold. Final. I stared up at him. "Lewis..." "You want your money so badly?" He looked at me with the same contempt he reserved for disloyal soldiers who tried to bargain with the Delgado family. "Then prove you're telling the truth." My fingers tightened around my phone. "What?" Lewis pointed at the marble floor beneath my knees. "Kneel." I froze. His mouth curved into a cruel smile. "Stay right here until dawn." He glanced toward the closed bedroom door. "If you're still kneeling when the sun comes up, maybe I'll believe your little story about your father." I couldn't speak. He continued, completely unmoved. "Then I'll consider releasing your payment." For three years, I'd negotiated multimillion-dollar acquisitions for the Delgado organization. I'd sat across from armed Mafia captains, handled financial disputes between rival families, and helped Lewis turn failing businesses into profitable operations. I'd earned every dollar he owed me. And now he wanted me to kneel outside his bedroom like a criminal begging for mercy. Not because I owed him anything. But because he could. Lewis turned away. I forced myself to speak. "Lewis!" He stopped. "That's a person's life!" My voice echoed down the empty corridor. "That's my father!" Lewis stood with his back to me. I swallowed hard. "He's in the hospital fighting to stay alive. I only need twenty thousand dollars. You spend more than that on a single bottle of whiskey for your Mafia associates!" My voice broke. "Please. I'm begging you." Lewis didn't turn around. After several seconds, he spoke. "Clarissa just had a nightmare." I stared at his back. His voice remained flat. "She's frightened. She needs someone with her." He reached for the bedroom door. "Stop making so much noise, Abigail." My heart sank. "And if you disturb her again, you won't get a single cent." The door opened. Warm light spilled into the corridor. Then Lewis stepped inside. The door closed behind him with a quiet click. I sat motionless on the floor. The hallway fell completely silent. For a long time, I stared at the place where he'd been standing. I couldn't understand how a man could be so cruel. I'd known Lewis Delgado was ruthless. He was the heir to one of New York's most powerful Mafia families. I'd seen him order armed men out of his office with a single look. I'd watched him destroy business rivals without losing a night's sleep. But I'd always believed there was a difference between the man he showed the underworld and the man I'd spent three years caring for. Apparently, I'd been wrong. To Lewis, my father's life was worth less than Clarissa Simmons's bad dream. I lowered my head and unlocked my phone. There was no time to cry. I opened my contacts. The first number belonged to a former business associate of my father. I typed quickly. Mr. Bennett, I'm sorry to contact you so late. My father is in critical condition. I urgently need to borrow twenty thousand dollars for his surgery. I'll repay you as soon as my outstanding commission is released. I sent the message. Then I opened another contact. And another. Former classmates. Old family friends. People who'd once attended lavish parties at the Fox estate. People who'd called my father their closest friend when his businesses were thriving. I messaged every one of them. Some messages remained unread. Others showed that they had been delivered, but no reply came. Several numbers were no longer in service. A few contacts had blocked me years ago, when the Fox family's financial collapse made us inconvenient to know. I kept trying. My fingers shook so badly that I could barely type. The burns on my right hand throbbed. My fever made the words on the screen blur. But I couldn't stop. Every minute mattered. At 10:37 p.m., I sent another message. At 10:46, I tried calling an old family acquaintance. No answer. At 10:53, I contacted a former colleague from the financial firm where I'd interned before joining the Delgado organization. The call went straight to voicemail. I checked my banking app again. Available balance: $30,000. The number hadn't changed. Twenty thousand dollars. That was all I needed. For the Delgado family, it was pocket change. For my father, it was the difference between receiving the surgery he needed and losing his chance to survive. I looked toward Lewis's bedroom. For one terrible moment, I considered knocking again. But I remembered his warning. Disturb her again, and you won't get a single cent. I couldn't afford to lose the only source of money still available to me. So I stayed where I was. My knees rested against the freezing marble. My back ached. The fever made my entire body tremble. I kept sending messages. One after another. Please call me. It's an emergency. I can provide proof of repayment. I only need twenty thousand dollars. No one answered. The minutes dragged past. Eleven o'clock. Eleven fifteen. Eleven thirty. Every time my phone vibrated, my heart leaped. But it was always another automated notification. Never the reply I needed. I called the hospital twice. The first time, a nurse told me the doctors were still working on my father. The second time, the line was busy. I stared at the screen, silently begging it to ring. Just one person. I needed only one person willing to help. By eleven fifty, I could barely feel my legs. My fever had climbed so high that the corridor seemed to sway around me. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes for a moment. I remembered my father before everything had fallen apart. Zachary Fox had once been a respected businessman in New York's financial circles. He'd taught me how to read balance sheets before I was old enough to understand why they mattered. Whenever I made a mistake, he'd tell me to check the numbers again. "Money comes and goes, Abby. But you can always start over if you keep your head." After the family business collapsed, he'd aged almost overnight. Then came the illness. The hospital visits. The treatments. The mounting bills. I'd promised him that once the debt was cleared, things would get better. And last month, when his condition finally stabilized, I'd sat beside his hospital bed and told him we were almost free. He'd smiled. "You've done enough, sweetheart." I'd shaken my head. "Not yet, Dad." I'd promised him a fresh start. A little house somewhere quiet. No more Delgado family. No more debt collectors. No more living under the protection of men who believed they owned us. All I needed was a little more time. At midnight, my phone vibrated. I opened my eyes immediately. A message had arrived. From St. Catherine's Medical Center. For one brief second, hope surged through me. I unlocked the screen. Then I read the message. Patient: Zachary Fox Emergency resuscitation unsuccessful. Time of death: 11:58 p.m. Family members are requested to report to the hospital to complete the necessary procedures. I stared at the words. I read them once. Then again. Every word was familiar. I understood what patient meant. I understood resuscitation. I understood unsuccessful. And I understood time of death. But when those words appeared together beneath my father's name, my mind refused to accept them. I blinked. The message didn't change. I refreshed the screen. Still the same. Time of death: 11:58 p.m. Two minutes before midnight. My father had died while I sat outside Lewis Delgado's bedroom, begging for money I'd already earned. I opened the hospital's number. My thumb hovered over the call button. I wanted to ask them to check again. Perhaps there'd been a mistake. Perhaps they'd sent the message to the wrong family. Perhaps another patient had the same name. But I couldn't make myself press the button. My fingers had gone completely numb. I sat against the wall, staring at the screen until the words began to blur. Then, from behind the bedroom door, I heard Clarissa's voice. "Lewis..." Soft. Sweet. Almost childlike. "I'm scared." A moment later, Lewis answered. "Don't be afraid." His voice was so gentle that I barely recognized it. "I'm here." I closed my eyes. For three years, I'd heard that voice in my dreams. I'd once imagined Lewis speaking to me that way. I'd thought that if I worked hard enough, endured enough, and proved myself useful enough, perhaps one day he'd look at me with genuine affection. Now I understood. He'd always been capable of tenderness. He'd simply never wanted to give it to me. My father was dead. And Lewis Delgado was comforting the woman who'd spilled wine on her dress. I waited for the tears. They didn't come. There was no scream. No sobbing. No sudden collapse. Just a strange, empty silence spreading through my chest. I placed one hand against the wall and slowly pushed myself upright. My legs trembled. For a moment, I thought I might fall. Then I steadied myself. The fever that had been burning through me all evening seemed to have vanished. My skin felt cold. My body felt almost weightless. I looked once at the closed bedroom door. I didn't knock. I didn't call Lewis's name. There was nothing left to say. I turned and walked downstairs. The Delgado mansion was quiet. The grand chandeliers had been dimmed, leaving only a few wall lamps glowing along the corridors. Two armed guards stood near the main entrance. Neither paid much attention as I passed. To them, I was just another member of the household staff. A woman in plain clothes returning to her room after a long shift. I made my way to the servants' quarters. The room was small. A narrow bed. A wardrobe. A desk. And one suitcase tucked beneath the bed. Three years in the Delgado household, and this was all the space that truly belonged to me. I pulled out the suitcase and placed it on the bed. Inside were a few old clothes. Two sweaters. A pair of jeans. Some underwear. Nothing expensive. Nothing Lewis had bought me. I left every designer dress, every piece of jewelry, and every gift he'd ever given me exactly where it was. Those things belonged to the life I'd spent three years pretending to have. I no longer wanted any part of it. Once I'd packed, I opened the bottom drawer of the desk. Inside lay a thick folder. My Emotional Services Invoice. The ledger I'd maintained throughout my three years with Lewis. Every event I'd attended. Every drink I'd taken on his behalf. Every financial favor. Every humiliation. Every hour of work. One thousand and ninety-five days, reduced to numbers and neatly organized records. I'd believed that if I calculated everything carefully enough, I could eventually walk away without losing anything more. How stupid I'd been. I placed the folder on the desk and opened it to the final page. Then I picked up a pen. My hand was still trembling. I stared at the blank space for a long moment before writing. Final Settlement Statement Funeral expenses for Zachary Fox: Priceless. Payment status: Paid in full by Abigail Fox. Outstanding balance: All debts settled. I put down the pen. For a moment, I looked at the words. There was no amount I could enter beside my father's name. No number large enough to describe what I'd lost. Lewis could keep his money. He could keep the penthouse. He could keep the sapphire necklace he'd given Clarissa. He could keep every expensive possession he'd once used to convince me I was fortunate to belong to him. None of it could bring my father back. I tore the final page from the ledger. Then I walked to the door and taped it at eye level. Anyone entering the room would see it immediately. I didn't leave a farewell letter. I didn't explain where I was going. Lewis Delgado had made it clear that my words meant nothing to him. There was no reason to waste any more. I closed the suitcase. Then I switched off the light. At the main entrance, one of the security guards glanced at me. "Miss Fox?" I stopped. He looked at the suitcase in my hand. "Heading somewhere?" "Yes." He hesitated. "Does Mr. Delgado know?" I looked at him. Then I gave him the same polite smile I'd perfected over three years. "He will." The guard said nothing more. Perhaps he assumed I was running an errand. Perhaps he didn't care. Either way, the gates opened. I stepped outside. Rain was pouring over the Delgado estate. Cold winter rain. It hammered against the stone driveway, splashed across the expensive cars parked beneath the covered entrance, and streamed down the iron gates. I had no umbrella. I didn't look for one. I simply gripped the handle of my suitcase and walked into the storm. Within seconds, my hair was soaked. Rainwater ran down my face and slipped beneath my collar. The last traces of dried red wine washed from my skin. My burned wrist stung. My clothes clung to my body. But I kept walking. Behind me, the Delgado mansion glowed against the darkness. For three years, I'd lived inside those walls. I'd believed that if I could survive long enough to pay off the Fox family's debt, I'd eventually be free. I hadn't imagined freedom would come at such a terrible price. At the curb, I stopped beside a storm drain. I took out my phone. The screen was wet, but it still worked. There were no missed calls from Lewis. No messages. Nothing. I removed the SIM card. For a moment, I held the tiny piece of plastic between my fingers. That number had been my connection to the Delgado organization for three years. Lewis had used it to summon me at any hour. His associates had called whenever they needed a financial problem solved. The household staff had contacted me whenever something went wrong. And tonight, I'd used it to beg strangers for enough money to save my father. I opened my fingers. The SIM card dropped through the metal grate and disappeared into the rushing water below. I watched it vanish. Then I picked up my suitcase and continued down the street. I didn't look back. For three years, I'd calculated every expense, every favor, and every debt. I'd believed there was a price for everything. But standing in the rain that night, I finally understood that some losses could never be repaid. My father was gone. And the man who could have helped me save him had chosen not to. This time, I didn't need a calculator. The Delgado family and I were finished. Our accounts were closed.