Chapter 4 Blood and Debt

"What do you mean,Clara asked, N.W. stands for Nicholas Wolfe?" Elena said,

Elena held up her phone, her brows high with disbelief. "Clara. That's him. I matched the initials and look, his face." She turned the screen. "Nicholas Wolfe. CEO of Wolfe Corp. Nicholas Wolfe. He owns N.W, the best multinational corporation in the whole of New York.

Clara dropped onto the couch, stunned. "I slept with that man?"

Elena sat beside her. "And he left you twenty thousand dollars. I mean, if I had a dollar for every girl who had to beg for cab fare in the morning"

"Elena," Clara snapped, her throat tight. "This isn't funny."

"I'm not joking. Clara, twenty grand? That's a blessing. You've got rent due, Lily's meds, and your loan servicer won't stop calling"

Clara shot up, pacing. "I'm not a.." she choked. "I'm not someone who can be bought. My body isn't for sale."

"I didn't say it was! I'm saying maybe he's not like other guys. Maybe for him, this is just normal. His version of thanks. Maybe he thought he was helping."

Clara stared at the check again. Her stomach turned. "It felt real, you know? That night. The way he looked at me. Like I wasn't just another body in his bed." Her voice cracked. "And then he leaves this. Like I was a transaction."

Elena sighed. "So what are you going to do? Tear it up?"

"I don't know," Clara whispered. "I can't even breathe right now."

Before Elena could reply, a sound echoed from the hallway.

A soft gasp. Then a thud.

Clara's world snapped into motion.

"Lily!" she screamed, rushing toward the bedroom. Her little sister was on the floor, trembling, her skin pale and clammy. "Elena, call an ambulance!"

St. Jude Oncology Hospital reeked of antiseptic and dread. Clara gripped Lily's hand as the gurney was rushed through the sliding doors.

"Elena, tell them she's been fighting acute lymphoblastic leukemia," Clara said, breathless, her words tumbling over each other. "She's in the middle of her chemo cycle. Tell them, tell them she's all I've got."

Minutes blurred into an hour before a doctor appeared, clipboard in hand, face lined with fatigue.

"Miss Hart," he said gently, "your sister's condition has worsened. The cancer is aggressive. Her white blood cell count is dangerously low."

Clara nodded, waiting for the drop.

"She needs a bone marrow transplant. Immediately."

Her heart stopped. "Okay. We'll do it. Just please, help her."

The doctor hesitated. "The emergency care from today totals $3,000. There's also a past due balance of $3,710.94 from her last cycle. And for the transplant to proceed, we'll need $5,000 upfront."

Clara didn't speak. Couldn't.

The numbers danced in front of her like vultures circling.

The doctor lowered his voice. "Without the transplant, she won't survive the next few weeks."

Clara didn't remember the walk to the bank. She only remembered the air being thick and her legs barely cooperating. Elena stood beside her silently as she handed the check to the teller.

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Do you have ID?"

Clara gave her everything she had. The woman eyed the amount and typed.

The funds cleared.

She left the bank with her stomach twisting and her hands curled around the cash like a mother shielding a newborn.

She paid every bill. Cleared Lily's debts. Paid for the transplant. And then she sat outside the hospital, watching nurses wheel her sister down a hallway, the receipt for a miracle burning in her purse.

She didn't cry. She made a promise.

"I'll pay every damn cent back," Clara whispered to no one. "My body is not for sale."

Life didn't pause for broken hearts or blood debts.

Three days later, Clara tied her apron behind the counter of the small coffee shop, smiling at rude customers and pouring soy milk like nothing had changed.

Her body moved, but her soul lagged behind.

"Clara?"

She turned at the voice. A quiet figure stood at the door, leaning slightly like he didn't want to intrude.

"Mato," she said, surprised.

Elena's cousin stepped in with his usual calm, his dark eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses. "I was nearby."

"You always are," she said with a tired smile, wiping her hands on a rag.

He glanced at her, then at the countertop. "Still working here?"

"It pays... some bills."

He hesitated, then sat. "I might know someone who's hiring."

Clara tilted her head. "Mato, you know I don't do charity."

"It's not charity," he said. "It's a position at TF."

Her breath caught. "TF.? As in Thomas Fashion?"

He nodded. "They need entry-level textile creatives. You have a design background, don't you?"

"Minor in fabric theory," she said softly.

"It's a long shot, but you should apply."

Clara stared at him. "How do you know people at TF?"

Mato shrugged. "I've done some freelance work... tech stuff."

She narrowed her eyes but let it go. He always was quiet.

"Okay," she said. "I'll try."

Four days later, the email arrived: You are invited for an in-person interview at TF Headquarters for the position of Junior Fabric Designer.

Clara spent hours assembling her old portfolio designs from college, sketches she never thought would matter again. Elena curled her hair that morning and handed her a clean pair of flats.

"Go get it," she said.

Clara arrived early, heart pounding, nerves taut. The TF building gleamed like a palace of wealth, floor-to-ceiling glass and sharp steel angles. A receptionist greeted her with a perfect smile.

"Mr. Gregson, your assigned interviewer, is out sick today. The CEO is stepping in to conduct the interviews personally."

"Okay,"

She sat in the waiting lounge alongside three other candidates, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Anxiety pressed against her chest like a weight. The assistant, a neatly dressed woman with tired eyes, opened the door and called the first name.

"Ms. Sarah."

A tall, elegant woman in heels and a sharp navy blazer stood up, smoothing down her skirt before walking confidently into the office.

Twenty minutes later, she stormed out, muttering curses under her breath.

"He's such a jerk," she spat as she passed them, her face flushed with fury.

Clara's stomach twisted.

Time crawled. One by one, the other women were called in. One came out nearly in tears. The last, an older, seasoned-looking candidate slammed the door behind her and turned to the assistant.

"How the hell do you cope with such an arrogant jerk?" she snapped before stomping off.

Clara's pulse thundered in her ears.

Maybe she should leave. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she wasn't built for this world of brutal suits and sharper tongues. But just as she started to consider slipping out quietly, the assistant turned to her with a look that almost resembled pity.

"Ms. Clara Hart?"

Her heart nearly dropped out of her chest.

She stood, legs stiff, and walked to the door on trembling feet. She hesitated, hand hovering near the handle. Should she knock? Should she just walk in? Or should she turn around and run?

Then a cold, arrogant voice snapped from the other side.

"I don't have all day."

The sound of his voice turned her blood to ice.

Clara opened the door.

The office was sleek and minimalist, all steel and glass chilling, like the man behind the desk. He didn't bother to look up immediately. His suit was pitch black, expertly tailored, and a gleaming silver watch clung to his wrist like a statement of dominance. Everything about him screamed power and precision.

And when he did lift his eyes, they sliced into her like knives.

"Are you here to seduce me like the others?" he asked, voice laced with venom.

Clara froze.

Nicholas Wolfe.

Her breath caught in her throat. The man from the club. The one from that night.

He stared at her as if she were something foul beneath his shoe.

"You again?" he said, his expression darkening. "Was the money not enough for you?"

Clara's voice died in her throat. Shame and fear crashed over her like a wave.

She wanted to disappear.

To vanish.

To be anywhere but here.