Ignoring the stares and murmurs around her, Daphne wrenched herself free from the waiter’s grip and stumbled forward, dropping to her knees in front of Logan.
Once filled with boisterous laughter and chatter, the room went eerily silent. All eyes were on her now.
“Please,” she begged, her voice cracking with desperation. “Save my father!”
Logan leaned back on the plush sofa, his expression icy and detached. He looked down at her as if she were a stranger begging on the street.
“Why beg me?” he said coldly. “Go ask Kyle.”
Daphne’s chest tightened at the mention of Kyle. She knew Logan was fully aware that the only family with access to the rare, life-saving medication her father needed was the Carmichaels. He just wanted to see her squirm.
Her voice trembled as she pushed forward, her pride long forgotten. “Help me this once, and I’ll do anything you want.”
Logan’s lips curled into a smirk, a cruel glint flickering in his eyes.
“Anything?” he asked, his voice laced with mockery. “Then strip. Right here. In front of everyone.”
Gasps and low chuckles rippled through the room. Some men whistled while the women exchanged smug, satisfied smiles. This was entertainment to them—a game at her expense.
Daphne’s gaze flicked to the crowd of familiar faces, the elite heirs and heiresses of Glendale, Los Angeles. They were people she had once socialized with and attended galas and charity events alongside. Now, they watched her with a mixture of pity and disdain.
Logan’s demand was cruel, a calculated attempt to humiliate her in the worst way possible. But as much as her chest burned with shame, she knew her father’s life hung in the balance.
What choice did she have?
Taking a deep breath, she reached for her bulky coat.
The room erupted. Some of the men jeered, while others laughed outright. A few women muttered cruel remarks under their breath, their sneers sharp enough to cut.
Logan, lounging with a glass of red wine, didn’t even glance her way. He sipped his drink, handing the glass back to the woman beside him as if he couldn’t be bothered to watch.
Daphne slid off her coat, revealing the modest sweater underneath. Her fingers trembled, but she kept going. She pulled the sweater over her head, leaving her in a thin camisole that clung to her frame.
The room’s noise quieted momentarily as her bare shoulders and slender arms came into view.
Then, just as the murmurs started again, Logan finally looked her way. His gaze lingered for a moment too long, taking in the marks scattered across her exposed skin—marks he had left.
Without missing a beat, Daphne grabbed the hem of her camisole. She began lifting it.
Suddenly, a coat landed over her shoulders, its warmth cutting through the cold, heavy air.
Logan stood, his face dark with disgust.
“Daphne,” he spat, “you’ve completely lost all sense of shame.”
Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to cry in front of him.
“You promised,” she whispered, clutching the coat tightly. “You said if I did what you asked, you’d save my father.”
Logan’s lips curled into a sneer. “I said I’d consider it. Don’t confuse that with a promise.”
Before she could say another word, Logan motioned to the security guards near the door. “Get her out of here,” he barked.
The guards moved quickly, grabbing her arms and dragging her out of the room. Her protests fell on deaf ears.
By the time she was thrown onto the street, humiliation and despair overwhelmed her.
...
An hour later, she arrived at the hospital, her heart pounding in fear. But to her immense relief, she was told that her father had already been given the medication he needed half an hour ago. His condition was now stable.
Daphne released a shaky breath and sank to the floor, her legs stretching beneath her. For the first time that night, she felt something other than dread. It was fleeting, but it was there—relief.
She couldn't hold back her tears when she finally stepped into her father’s room. He looked so frail lying there, his face lined with age and illness.
Two years.
That’s all it had taken to turn him into a shadow of the man he used to be.
By the time she left the ward, the clock had struck midnight. The hospital’s halls were quiet, the air cold and still. As she stepped outside, a sleek black Maybach parked conspicuously near the entrance, caught her attention.
She froze when she saw who was inside.
Even after everything that had happened in the private room—after the pain, the humiliation—she knew Logan had been the one to save her father.
Without his influence and money, her father wouldn’t even be in this hospital, let alone receiving such top-notch care. No matter how much she wanted to hate him, she couldn’t bring herself to.
Taking a deep breath, she approached the car. The window rolled down just enough for her to see Logan’s face, his expression unreadable.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Logan’s lips curled into a mocking smile. “How much do you think your ‘thank you’ is worth?”
Her head dropped, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. She already knew the answer: not much. Not anymore.
Through the crack in the window, Logan’s voice came again, sharp and impatient. “Get in the car. What are you waiting for? An invitation?”
She hesitated but ultimately climbed in. The hospital was in the new district, and at this hour, catching a cab was nearly impossible.
“Drop me somewhere I can grab a ride home,” she said, her voice low. “I don’t want to bother you any more than I already have.”
Logan let out a low chuckle, his eyes glinting with something she couldn’t place. “You think I’m here to take you home?”
