Melissa's POV.
The cab hadn't even stopped when I threw the door open.
I shoved my last crumpled bills at the driver and ran before he could say anything.
I sprinted into the hospital, nearly colliding with a nurse carrying a tray of files. My heart pounded like I was running from something that had already caught up to me.
The doctor met me at the ward entrance, his grim expression making it hard to hold onto any hope.
"We managed to stabilize her for now, but her heart is failing," he said gently but firmly. "She needs the bypass surgery immediately. We have a very small window—twenty-four hours at most."
I nodded frantically, biting my lip hard enough to taste copper. "Then do it. Please. Just save her."
He hesitated, his eyes dropping to the chart in his hands. He lowered his voice as an orderly wheeled a cart past us. "I want to, Melissa. But to schedule the specialized surgical team, administration requires the deposit upfront. The cost of the procedure is—"
"I don't have it right now," I interrupted, my voice cracking. "But I'll get it. I swear I'll bring it. Just prep her—"
"I'm sorry. We can keep her comfortable on the machines for the next day, but you need to act fast. She won't make it past tomorrow night without that surgery."
I backed away from him slowly, numb, as though the air around me had suddenly turned to sludge.
I walked into my mother's ward, and the sight of her hit me like a physical blow. She looked so small, her skin pale and paper-thin against the hospital sheets. The rhythmic beep of the monitors was the only proof she was still here.
My knees gave out. I sank to the cold linoleum floor beside her bed, pressing my forehead against the mattress.
"I'm sorry, Mum," I whispered, barely able to speak past the lump in my throat. "Please hang on. I won't let them take you too."
My trembling hands instinctively reached into my pocket for my phone. Jason.
He was the only one left. He had promised to take care of me. I had given up my college scholarship so he could afford his tuition abroad, and he had sworn he would fund my mother's surgery the moment he started working.
I hit his contact name, pressing the phone to my ear, praying he would pick up.
"The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected."
I froze. I pulled the phone away, staring at the screen. Disconnected? I quickly opened our chat app to message him.
The input bar was gone. His profile picture was blank. He had blocked me.
Panic clawed at my throat. My hands shook so badly I could barely type as I opened a browser and searched his name on social media.
His profile loaded. And the breath was instantly knocked out of my lungs.
The first post was pinned to the top of his page. Dated three weeks ago.
"Forever with my soulmate. Three years together, and now a lifetime to go."
Attached was a wedding photo.
Jason stood in a custom-tailored tuxedo on the balcony of a five-star resort overlooking the ocean.
The same ocean he once promised we would visit together when we could finally afford it.
He was smiling proudly, his hand resting over the undisclosed bride's delicate fingers as they pressed flat against his chest. A massive diamond sparkled on her hand, resting right next to his gleaming gold band.
Three years. They had been together for three years. The entire time I was starving myself to send him money, the entire time I was enduring Mrs. Harry's abuse to keep my miserable job, he was using my sacrifices to build a lavish life with someone else. He hadn't even had the decency to tell me. He just got married and changed his number.
My phone slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the floor.
A wave of nausea hit me so hard my knees buckled. I grabbed the edge of a plastic waiting room chair, my vision blurring at the edges. My chest heaved, and for one blinding second, a hot, sharp spark of pure rage flared in my blood. I wanted to scream. I wanted to hurl the chair through the window and smash something until it was as broken as I was.
But there was no time for anger. My mother was dying in the next room. There was only survival.
I sat there, shaking, until the tears simply stopped coming. I tried calling my supervisor, Mrs. Harry, begging for an advance or a loan.
"You walked off your shift, Melissa. The termination letter is already in your email," she said bluntly, and the line went dead.
I was out of time.
Out of money.
And finally, out of hope.
There was only one place left. The one place I swore I would never return to.
The Langtons.
The thought of going back there made my stomach churn. What Mrs. Langton had asked of me was unthinkable. But it was also the only offer that came with any promise of survival. I remembered that Mr. Langton had seemed uncomfortable when his wife brought it up. Maybe if I begged him, if I explained about my mother and Jason, he would just give me a loan without forcing me to become someone else.
I clung to that tiny, foolish sliver of hope like a drowning woman.
By the time I dragged myself back to the Langton mansion, the suffocating quiet had settled deeper into the house. A housekeeper led me to the study, not meeting my eyes.
Mr. Langton sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his fingers steepled together, staring blankly at the wall.
The moment I saw him, whatever pride I had left completely shattered. I dropped to my knees right there on his expensive rug, the tears returning with a violent force.
"Please, sir," I choked out, my voice ragged. "My mother is dying. She needs surgery by tomorrow night or she won't make it. I have nothing left. Please help me."
He slowly lowered his hands and looked down at me. For a split second, a flash of genuine guilt crossed his aging features. He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening as if physically shutting away his conscience.
When he opened them again, his expression was completely empty of the pity I had hoped for. He wasn't a monster; he was a desperate man choosing his legacy over my life.
Without wasting a single second, his voice filled the room, dead to all emotion.
"Have you made your decision?"
My fingers curled into the expensive rug beneath my knees.
I finally understood.
This was never a request.
It was a price.