I watched the blood bag slowly fill with red, my mind fixed on one image: Denise in her hospital gown, looking up at me with those brave eyes. Mommy, I'm not scared.
The last drop drained from me. My vision went black. I hit the floor hard.
When I came to, I bolted upright and grabbed my phone, checking my balance with shaking hands.
The hundred thousand Denys Simmons had promised? Not a single cent had arrived.
I didn't wait for the dizziness to pass. Still clutching my sleeve where they'd drawn blood—the fabric wrinkled and damp—I stormed into Simmons Group headquarters.
The receptionist tried to stop me. I shoved past the glass doors and burst into the top-floor office.
Denys Simmons lounged on the leather sofa, sipping coffee. He looked at me the way someone looks at trash blown in from the street.
"Where's the money?" My voice shook. My nails bit into my palms.
He set down his cup with deliberate slowness, a mocking curve forming on his lips. "What money?"
When I just stared at him, he let out a derisive laugh. "The daughter of a call girl thinks she deserves a hundred thousand?"
Call girl.
The words seared into me like a branding iron.