"Please don't throw me out. I have nowhere else to go, Mr. Bradford."
Malikha heard the tremor in her own voice and despised it. She had spent years learning how to stand straight, even when the world pushed her down. She had learned to smile when customers looked at her as if she were something cheap. She had learned how to swallow humiliation until it tasted almost normal.
But now, this was different. She must survive. Mr. Bradford kicked her hand away from his trousers as if she had dirtied him simply by touching him. "I gave you two extra months. The new owner wants this place. You're leaving tonight."
Her chest tightened. The apartment was small. The paint peeled near the window. The heater barely worked. But it was the last place that had felt remotely stable, the last place where she could close the door and pretend she wasn't constantly one step away from disaster.
"Please. I have nowhere to go," she whispered again, softer now, because begging loudly hadn't worked. "Let me stay here one more night to pack my things."
His expression hardened. "Don't even dream! Fifteen minutes, or I will kick you out myself!"
The door slammed, and Malikha gasped in shock. The sound echoed down the hallway, but inside her, it sounded louder, as if it were final.
Malikha remained kneeling long after his footsteps disappeared. The floor felt cold against her skin, but she barely noticed. A strange numbness spread through her limbs, as if her body understood before her mind did that this was another chapter of being unwanted.
Another reminder that she was temporary in every place she tried to belong. She pressed her palms flat against the floor and forced herself to breathe.
Don't cry, she kept reminding herself. Crying only wasted time. And time was the only thing she had left. Packing felt like dismantling her own fragile life.
She folded clothes mechanically, not because they mattered, but because folding kept her hands from shaking. She gathered her mother's medical reports carefully, smoothing out the creases as though gentleness could somehow fix the numbers printed on them.
The surgery was estimated, and she had the medication schedule. The doctor had already set a deadline for her. Being homeless was not an option now, yet failure loomed before her eyes. She paused when her fingers brushed against a small velvet box hidden at the back of her drawer.
After putting some of her clothes into a suitcase, she dragged it to the bus. She had to keep moving; now she had to work. By the time she reached the bar, her eyes were dry, but only because she had cried enough for one day.
Saturday nights were loud, chaotic, merciless. The music pounded through her bones as she moved between tables, balancing trays with practiced precision. Her body worked automatically; her mind drifted elsewhere. She had to keep her sanity to pay the bills, and then her life would go on. A sudden slap against her backside snapped her back to reality.
She froze. Heat rushed up her neck, not from embarrassment, but from anger that she had to endure this again.
"You're pretty," the man grinned. "Spend the night with me. I'll pay."
The words made her stomach twist violently, as if her body could be reduced to a transaction for someone else's desire.
"I'm not a call girl," she said, her voice steady despite the way her pulse pounded in her ears.
But even as she walked away, the words lingered in her mind. Why did it feel like life kept bargaining with her?
"You're too proud," Jamie murmured later, stacking glasses beside her. "One night could solve everything."
Malikha kept her eyes on the countertop, afraid that if she looked up, her uncertainty would show.
Her mother's weak smile flashed in her mind. The way she tried to sound strong over the phone. The way she always said, "Don't worry about me, sweetheart," as if Malikha could ever do anything but worry.
"What's dignity worth," Jamie continued softly, "if your mom doesn't survive?"
The words hit harder than any slap. Malikha's fingers tightened around a glass until she thought it might shatter. She had once guarded her heart, and it had left her in pain and cost her future. She shook her head to reject Jamie's offer. She would not sell her body.
When the bar closed, silence settled like a heavy blanket. Malikha approached Richard Winter with hesitant steps. Asking for help had always felt like stripping herself bare.
"I was evicted," she admitted quietly. "May I stay here tonight? Just until morning." The humiliation tasted metallic in her mouth.
He studied her for a long moment. She forced herself not to shrink under his gaze. If he said no, she didn't know what she would do. Should she sleep at the bus station? Or call Jamie and sell the last piece of herself she had protected all these years?
The possibilities swirled, suffocating. Finally, he handed her the keys. "One night."
Relief crashed over her so violently that her knees nearly gave out. "Thank you," she breathed.
Before the bar opened the next day, Richard Winter called her over.
"There's a buyer," he whispered nervously. "He bought the entire block and wants this place too."
Malikha barely listened. The man did not look happy, yet he had no choice. "So, what happens to us?" Malikha almost lost her voice.
Richard opened his mouth to speak, but the door opened. Silence fell in subtle waves. The man who entered did not belong in this place.
His suit was tailored to perfection. His presence carried weight — controlled, deliberate. Men followed behind him, alert and disciplined. He scanned the room lazily, then his gaze landed on her.
As if something crumpled inside her heart, Malikha felt it immediately. The way his attention locked onto her was like a physical touch. Something about his eyes unsettled her. He stared at her coldly, and she returned his gaze in confusion. There was something familiar about him in a way she couldn't explain.
She straightened instinctively and approached the table, ignoring her discomfort.
"We don't open yet…"
He gave a low, humorless chuckle, laughing at her foolishness. Malikha fell silent when Richard approached. Up close, she felt something unsettling about him, not lust, but recognition.
"Mr. Caesar, please have a seat." Richard forced a smile to hide his fear of the man. He glanced at Malikha and nodded, signaling her to serve the guest.
"May I take your order, Sir?" she asked politely, standing beside him as she waited.
Up close, he was even more intimidating. With a sharp jaw and a controlled expression, she could not deny that this man was not in a simple business.
His eyes moved over her slowly, not in lust but in assessment. He was measuring something, and Malikha didn't dare look at him for long.
"You don't remember me," he said quietly.
Her eyebrows furrowed. "I'm sorry?"
His jaw flexed almost imperceptibly. He tapped his fingers on the table, then scoffed. He was not happy with her response, but why?
The confusion in her expression was genuine, and it cut deeper than mockery would have. He had lived with her memory carved into him like a scar, and she looked at him like he was nothing. He couldn't believe her ignorance.
Malikha grew more confused. Had she said something wrong? Before more thoughts came, the man spoke again.
"I want something special."
"What would you like?" she asked carefully.
He turned to her, then stood. He towered over her, making Malikha step back. He dominated her with his height, his expression upset yet fierce.
"How much?"
Her brows drew together. "Excuse me?"
"How much would it take," he continued smoothly, "for you to leave with me tonight?"
Heat flooded her face — not from embarrassment, but from indignation. Malikha held her breath. That question had never crossed her mind. It repulsed her immediately.
"I don't sell myself." She trembled. Her voice came out hard, though something felt stuck in her throat.
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, but there was no humor in it. "Interesting," he murmured. "That's not how I remember you."
Malikha looked into his eyes. As his words struck something deep in her chest, she realized his eyes were not unfamiliar to her. She had seen them somewhere before.
"I think you're mistaken, Sir."
"Oh, I'm not." His gaze sharpened. For the briefest moment, something flickered there. There was pain in his voice, and Malikha could feel it.
"I don't even know you," she said, her voice tightening. For the first time in her life, she felt a trace of fear.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. "You should."
Silence stretched between them. The man pulled money from his wallet and flicked it in front of her. It didn't relieve her; it humiliated her. The amount equaled two months of her salary.
"You can take this money," he said, placing a stack of hundred-dollar bills on the table. "Come to my hotel tonight."
She stared at the cash, then at him. "I would rather sleep on the street."
The fire in her voice startled him. It was the same fire that once made him believe he wasn't alone. For a split second, something inside him wavered. Then pride tightened its grip.
"Don't pretend to be innocent," he said quietly. "It doesn't suit you."
Her throat tightened. She bit her lips to hold back the pain slowly building inside. Why did his words feel personal? Why did they sound like an accusation instead of an insult?
"I think you're confusing me with someone else. I don't know you," she whispered.
The corner of his mouth lifted. He snorted, as if wounded. Malikha did not recognize him or was pretending not to. The thought unsettled him more than anger ever had.
"Fifteen minutes," he said coldly to Richard as he turned away. "Sign the contract."
But as he walked toward the door, he paused. Without looking at her, he said softly, almost to himself,
"Some debts just don't disappear, Babydoll."