When Zara Powell stepped through the hospital doors, a sharp, twisting pain clamped down on her stomach. She pressed a shaking hand to the ache as she stumbled into the elevator.
She’d skipped dinner again. Years of missing meals had left her with chronic stomach problems that flared up when she pushed herself too hard.
Her friend lay unconscious in a bed down the hall, and Dr. John Swift—white coat crisp over his scrubs—sat waiting right beside the door. When he saw Zara walk in, he stood immediately and crossed to her, concern carved deep into his features. “You look like hell. Are you okay?”
Zara shook her head, forcing her expression to stay steady. “I’m fine. Where do I go to donate blood?”
John almost pressed her to sit down and rest first, but one look at her tight, jittery face made him hold his tongue.
A nurse led Zara to the donation room. As the plasma slowly drained from her arm, a wave of dizziness rolled over her. She pressed her fingertips to her temples, trying to ground herself.
Only a hundred milliliters in, the stomach pain spiked, and cold sweat broke out all over her skin. When she stepped out of the room, she had to lean against the corridor wall just to stay upright.
Out of nowhere, a middle-aged woman rushed up to her and dropped to her knees with a sharp thud right in front of Zara. Her voice cracked with raw emotion: “Please. Save my son.”
The woman looked familiar. Zara realized she’d seen her lingering outside her mother’s room earlier, glancing in over and over.
Zara fumbled to steady herself and bent down to tug her up. “Please stand up, I’m not a doctor.”
The woman wouldn’t move. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she stayed rooted on her knees. “I saw you donating blood for that other lady. My son needs it too. I’m begging you, help him.”
Zara hesitated. Her stomach was already screaming, and giving more blood right now was dangerous.
The woman scrambled to her feet and shoved a thick wad of cash into Zara’s hands—ten thousand dollars, all crumpled together. “Please. This is every penny I have, but I’ll pay whatever you need. Anything.”
Zara glanced down at the money, a sharp ache of sadness twisting in her chest. She turned to the nurse standing nearby. “Can I donate more?”
The nurse, eyeing the cash in Zara’s grip, frowned disapprovingly, but answered honestly anyway. “The maximum per donation is 500 milliliters. You’ve got 300 left you can give.”
Hope blazed to life in the woman’s eyes. She clutched Zara’s arm, begging so hard her hands shook. “Yes, any amount works! Blood can be stored for later. Miss, please, don’t worry about the money—it’s all yours.” She fumbled to stuff the entire wad into the pocket of Zara’s coat.
It was a borrowed coat, from her friend—Zara’s own top had gotten torn earlier that day.
After the second round of donation, Zara’s head was spinning so bad her vision blurred at the edges. The woman, as soon as she saw the nurse carry the vials of blood toward her son’s room, hurried off without another word to Zara.
Zara forced herself to steady up and grabbed the woman’s arm before she could get away. “Wait a second, please.”
The woman stopped, and when she turned back, impatience was all over her face, her eyes wary. “How much more do you want? Ten thousand is already a lot.”
Zara frowned, but pushed through the fog in her head to speak. “Could you leave your contact information? I want to pay you back.”
The woman waved her off like Zara was being ridiculous. “No need.” Then she turned and hurried off down the corridor, vanishing around a corner before Zara could say another word.
Zara let out a bitter, breathless laugh. She’d already taken the money—why add humiliation to the whole thing?
When she turned to leave, John Swift hurried over to her. He reached out to steady her, then pulled his hand back at the last second. He handed her a warm paper cup of coffee, his voice soft and gentle. “You haven’t eaten anything, right? A hundred milliliters shouldn’t leave you this pale.”
Zara leaned back against the wall, drew a deep breath, and lifted her head. “Dr. Swift, I’m going home tonight. I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Could you let my mom know?” She didn’t want her mother seeing her like this and worrying.
A staff member nearby spoke up. “I can drive you home.”
“No, thank you.” Zara stepped around his outstretched hand and made her way slowly to the elevator. John called after her, his voice a tangled mix of worry and frustration: “Zara, take care of yourself. Stop pushing this hard.”
When she stepped out of the hospital, the night air was crisp and cool, a steady fine drizzle falling over the parking lot. Zara walked slowly, the ten thousand dollars in her coat pocket heavy as lead. Just ten thousand more, and she’d be able to pay him back.
In this whole world, she could owe anyone money—except Samir Powell.
Suddenly, a strong, calloused hand clamped down on her shoulder, making her jump. It shoved her back hard, slamming her against one of the thick stone columns out front of the hospital. The shock and the throbbing ache in her stomach were almost enough to make her crumple right there. She was already so exhausted, and when she lifted her head to see who it was, the fatigue washed over her like a wave.
Samir Powell’s eyes were bloodshot. In the dim streetlight, his blazing gaze pinned her in place. “You’d sell your blood instead of coming to me. Zara, who are you playing martyr for? What pity are you trying to fish for?”
Zara’s gaze was unfocused, a tired little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Martyrdom? She had nothing left. How could she play at that? She was just scared—too scared to ever let this man back into her life again.
To Samir, that smile was infuriating. He grabbed her chin, hard, forcing her to hold his gaze. After a long, tense pause, he spoke, his voice sharp with biting sarcasm: “If you’re so desperate to sell parts of yourself for cash, why not sell an organ?”
Another wave of dizziness crashed over her. She murmured soft and slow, “Hard to find a buyer. You know any, Mr. Powell?”
“Is money all you ever care about?!” Samir’s voice cracked with raw anger. He pressed harder, shoving her back until her spine slammed into the stone column again.
Zara’s mind went fuzzy. Everything around her blurred. His face swam in front of her, unrecognizable. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead, and she couldn’t force a single word out.
Samir’s growl echoed right in her ear: “Talk!”
The sound boomed through her foggy mind, shattering the last fragile thread of her consciousness. She slumped forward, right into his shoulder, and for a split second, Samir froze. The tight, angry look on his face locked in place, his hands hung open, totally unsure what to do. Only when her body started slipping down did he react, yanking her tight against his chest to catch her. His voice came out rough, edged with uncharacteristic uncertainty: “Zara?”
No answer. Her face was pale and soft, like a child sleeping peacefully. A sharp, blinding panic surged through him. He lifted her into his arms, carried her quickly to his idling car, and snapped at his driver over his shoulder, cold and sharp: “Back to the estate.”
