Trapped By The Billionaire Doctor's Debt

Emilia opened her eyes to the dim light of the hotel suite. The immediate, sharp tearing sensation between her legs made her gasp. She sucked in a harsh breath, her lungs burning as the heavy scent of alcohol and sweat filled her nose.

She tried to push herself up. The silk blanket slipped, exposing her bare shoulders covered in dark red marks. Fragments of last night's frantic, suffocating weight crashed into her skull. Her stomach churned violently.

She turned her head. Across the massive, messy bed, a tall man stood with his back to her, silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He was slowly, methodically fastening the silver cufflinks of his tailored shirt. At the sound of her sharp intake of air, his hands stopped.

Clifton turned around. His deep, cold eyes pierced through the morning shadows, locking directly onto her.

The sheer aggression in his stare made Emilia's skin prickle. Panic seized her throat. She instinctively grabbed the slipping blanket and yanked it up to her collarbone, gripping the fabric so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Clifton watched her defensive movement. A cruel, mocking smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. He took slow, deliberate steps toward the bed.

He stood over her, looking down. There was no trace of the heat from last night in his eyes. It was a pure, calculating assessment. He was looking at a product.

Emilia's whole body trembled under his gaze. But the image of her father lying in the hospital, waiting for the surgery fee, flashed behind her eyes. She forced her chin up, meeting his terrifying stare.

She bit her lower lip hard. "The money," she said, her voice raspy but stubborn. "You promised ten thousand dollars as a deposit for passing your 'interview' for the egg retrieval."

Clifton's eyes instantly dropped in temperature. A muscle feathered in his jaw. He despised women like this-women who would sell themselves to the darkest corners of the city for a paycheck.

He leaned down. His long, cold fingers clamped around her jaw, forcing her head up so she couldn't look away.

"Your performance last night," he said, his voice a low, magnetic rumble that vibrated against her skin, "was not worth the price you are asking."

Heat rushed to Emilia's face, burning her cheeks. Tears of pure humiliation pricked her eyes, but she clamped her teeth together, refusing to let them fall.

She jerked her face away, slapping his hand off her jaw. "This was a transaction!" she yelled, her chest heaving. "You have to keep your word. I need that ten thousand."

At the number, the mockery in Clifton's eyes deepened. He straightened his posture and casually adjusted his silk tie.

He reached into the inside pocket of his expensive suit jacket and pulled out a sleek, custom-embossed checkbook. With a gold fountain pen, he quickly scrawled a pathetic number, tore the slip of paper free, and let the check drop.

It fluttered down like a piece of trash, landing on the nightstand right next to her pillow.

"That is your actual market value," he said coldly. "One hundred dollars. Not a penny more."

Emilia stared at the piece of paper. Her lungs stopped working. It felt like he had just stomped on her chest with a steel-toed boot. Her entire body shook with a violent, uncontrollable rage.

She snatched the check in her fist and threw it as hard as she could right at his chest.

The paper hit his expensive suit and fluttered to the carpet. Clifton's eyes darkened into something incredibly dangerous.

Emilia was mindless of her nakedness. Scrambling hastily off the far side of the bed, she snatched up her crumpled clothes from the floor and dressed in a frenzy.

She didn't even glance in his direction. She bolted for the suite door, wrenched it open, and fled.

The sound of her frantic, desperate footsteps echoed down the corridor until they faded into silence.

Clifton stood rooted to the spot. He stared at the closed door. His jaw was clenched tight, churning with a sudden, inexplicable wave of irritation.

He looked down, bending to retrieve the crumpled check. His thumb rubbed unconsciously against the paper's sharp edge.

A draft caught the heavy door, slamming it shut with a bang. The lock clicked loudly.

Slowly, Clifton walked back to the bed. He looked down. Against the pristine white sheets, a dark red stain stood out in stark contrast.

His pupils contracted sharply. His chest tightened.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cheap, black disposable phone. The screen was still open to the black-market egg donation hotline from last night. He stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the glass.