Carter #3
The words felt like a physical slap. I felt a wave of genuine, stomach-turning disgust roll through me, cooling the last of the adrenaline until I was left with nothing but a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth.
“Wow. There it is. The full offer,” I drawled softly, my voice thick with loathing. “I’m not worth respect unless I’m on my knees for you. Is that the Valerio way? You buy what you can't control?”
“I’m offering you the safest option,” he said. His face was carved into aristocratic boredom, completely unmoved by the way my hands were shaking. He looked at me and saw a line item. A liability to be managed.
“You’re offering me the grossest.”
He shifted closer, a deliberate violation of space. “Don't play the martyr. It doesn't suit you.”
“I’m not playing anything,” I snapped.
“No?” He tilted his head, his eyes scanning me with a terrifying familiarity.
“You’re a Hayes. And if your father taught the world anything, it’s that your family has a very flexible definition of integrity when there’s a check involved.
Don't pretend you're above survival now, especially when the alternative is going back to whatever hole your family, no doubt bribed, to get here.”
That hit harder than a physical blow. It wasn't just an insult; it was a sentence. He wasn't looking at me; he was looking at a version of me he’d already decided I was destined to become.
I reached down and snatched the stack of bills from where they’d been pinned between us.
My fingers curled around the cash, the paper crinkling under the force of my grip.
I didn't just hand it back; I shoved the wad of money and all my concentrated fury into the center of his chest, hard enough that I felt the solid thud of his heart beneath his ribs.
He rocked back, his eyes darkening with a sudden hunger that told me I’d finally cracked the ice.
“I don’t need your insurance,” I spat, my voice vibrating with a rage that felt like it was going to tear my throat open. “And I sure as fuck don’t want you.”
The light glared above us, harsh and revealing, bleaching the room bare until there was nowhere left for either of us to hide. Dominic’s nostrils flared, his hands curling into fists at his sides as he stepped back a half step, the air between us pulsing, tight and electric—
The door burst open.
A student stood frozen in the doorway, holding a stack of programs. His gaze pinged wildly between my face, Dominic’s proximity, and the cash.
“I—uh—didn’t realize—” he squeaked, backing out so fast he nearly tripped.
The door closed with a thud. Silence snapped back into place. I laughed—a sharp sound that cut the tension in half.
“You really think I’d take your money just to stop talking to someone you don’t think he should approve of? That’s cute.”
“Your family has a history of cashing in when the stakes get high,” he said, his voice dropping to a quiet, lethal level. “Don't be the first one to develop a conscience now. Do us both a favor—take the money and buy back whatever dignity you have left.”
I stilled. The smirk I’d been readying didn't just die; it turned to ash.
He didn’t know he’d just walked into a minefield.
Or maybe he did and simply didn’t care. But there was no way he could have known that the last time I’d seen a stack of cash that thick, it was being packed into a designer suitcase by a woman who’d spent years disguised as my mother before she left without looking back.
He didn't know that in my house, the sound of a closing door was preceded by the sound of a bank account hitting zero.
To him, this was a power play. To me, it was a reminder that I wasn't worth staying for once the well ran dry.
The atmosphere in the room didn't just shift; it curdled into something final. He was right about one thing: the Hayes name was synonymous with exit strategies.
I smiled with all my teeth, but it was a cold, vicious thing. “You clearly don’t know the market, Dominic, if you think you can afford mine.”
I leaned forward, the air between us humming with a dangerous kind of intensity. I snatched the bills from his hand and shoved them back into his pocket, my knuckles grazing the expensive fabric of his clothes.
“And you can go ahead and lose my phone number,” I added, my voice tight. “I’m not interested in whatever game you think you’re playing.”
Dominic didn’t flinch. Instead, his upper lip curled—a slow, visible ripple of genuine revulsion. He looked down at the pocket where I’d shoved the cash, then back at me, as if I’d just wiped grease on a masterpiece.
“You think I have your number?” he murmured. The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of a guillotine. He didn't just sound annoyed; he sounded offended that the thought had even crossed my mind.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Shortcut,” he said, his voice dropping to a level that made the small room feel like a freezer. “I don't keep track of the help.”
“Right. You don't keep track of us,” I said, my voice low and dangerously steady. “You just back us into corners and offer to pay for the privilege of our company. Makes you wonder who’s actually desperate, doesn't it?”
I didn't wait for the ice to shatter. I shoved the door open and stepped out, the click of the latch behind me sounding like a final sentence.
My heartbeat was thundering so loud it drowned out the muffled noise of everything else.
My footsteps carried me back into the main room—a chaos of lights, cables, and polished steel. The coordinator spotted me instantly, her clipboard held like a shield.
“There you are,” she said, her eyes already scanning the room for the next fire to put out. “Did you get that merch sorted? We’re behind schedule.”
She meant the box. My pulse, still out of control, interpreted it as something else entirely.
I swallowed, my throat dry and tight from the lingering spike of adrenaline, and forced my voice into something professional.
“Yeah,” I said, looking toward the exit where the cool air was waiting. “I handled it.”