“Stop.”

The man’s voice was deep, magnetic, laced with the kind of authority that brooked no dissent.

Yvonne’s feet froze instinctively, but she didn’t turn around. “Mr. Blackwell, is there something else you need?”

“If you’re here to earn, what’s the rush to leave?”

Her fists clenched at her sides, a sense of foreboding tightening in her chest.

“Smack!”

Samuel tossed a thick stack of cash onto the table with an almost careless flick of his wrist. The bills landed with a sharp slap, spreading out like the opening act of some cruel show.

He lifted an eyebrow, his expression amused, as though watching a particularly entertaining game unfold. “Drink this bottle, and the money is yours.”

Drink…

Yvonne’s back stiffened. She swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Mr. Blackwell, I’m sorry—I’m allergic to alcohol.”

Samuel laughed, but it was cold, weightless. “Is that so? I don’t recall.”

Heartlessly detached.

Don’t recall…

She was allergic to alcohol. Even the faintest sip of a low-proof fruit wine would bring her out in hives. A single glass of liquor could push her to the brink of anaphylactic shock.

Six years ago, she’d accidentally had an alcoholic drink and broken out in an alarming rash, thick red welts spreading across her skin. Back then, Samuel had panicked. In the middle of the night, he’d carried her to the hospital himself. Her arm had swollen where the IV was placed, and he’d sat by her side the whole night, massaging it to bring down the swelling. When they got home, he had tenderly applied ointment to her rash with his own hands.

He’d said back then that he’d never let her touch a drop of alcohol again. That he couldn’t bear to lose her—not even a little.

But now? Now, it seemed he didn’t even remember. Which meant… there was no escaping this bottle.

Her eyes burned, but she forced herself to blink back the tears. Steadily, she sucked in a breath, wiped away the dampness pooling at the corners of her eyes, and turned. A pale, fragile smile tugged at her lips. “All right. I’ll drink. I trust Mr. Blackwell will keep his promise.”

If Samuel wanted her to drink, refusing wasn’t an option. She knew all too well how deeply he despised her.

The bottle on the table gleamed dully under the light—a full bottle of vodka, 56 proof, meant for mixing cocktails. Drinking it straight, even for someone without her allergy, could rip apart their stomach lining.

But Iris was waiting for her at home. If she drank this, she could leave.

Yvonne spared a glance at the stack of cash—substantial enough to catch her attention. She smiled faintly. “What’s that—thirty thousand?”

Samuel’s dark eyes, cold and indifferent, locked onto hers. “Thirty-five. One bottle, Yvonne, and it’s yours. Consider yourself lucky.”

“Lucky…” she murmured. “I suppose I am.”

Thirty-five thousand. Enough for Iris’s tuition.

Before hesitation could creep in, Yvonne reached for the bottle.

Jasper’s hand came down over hers, stopping her. “Samuel! You could kill her with this!” His voice carried a rare sharpness, stained with concern.

As one of Yvonne’s seniors from their days at Aurelia University, Jasper had some history with her. Six years ago, their group had shared plenty of moments—enough that he couldn’t just stand by now, indifferent. Tonight, he’d brought Yvonne here for a different purpose. Samuel’s birthday had seemed like the perfect excuse to bridge the gaping chasm between them. Who would’ve guessed things would spiral into this?

“Jas,” a mocking voice interjected. Gabriel, ever the troublemaker, seemed thoroughly entertained by the chaos. He leaned back casually, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “When did Samuel’s personal business become yours to meddle in? If Yvonne says she’ll drink, that means she can handle it.”

Gabriel had never liked Yvonne. To him, she was nothing but a walking calamity. If not for her, he was convinced Samuel never would’ve spent three years behind bars.

Yvonne’s eyes were rimmed with red, but her delicate features held their composure. A faint, detached smile lingered on her face. “It’s fine,” she said softly. “I’ll drink. After all, tonight is Mr. Blackwell’s birthday. It wouldn’t do to ruin his mood.”

Her voice cracked at the edges, betraying her effort to stay steady.

Gripping the bottle, Yvonne tilted it straight to her lips. The fiery liquor poured into her mouth, burning its way down her throat like shards of broken glass, scraping her raw from the inside out. Tears spilled from her eyes uncontrollably, but she didn’t stop.

She drank too fast. The harsh strength of it overwhelmed her, and she began to cough violently. “Cough, cough, cough—”

Before long, her skin started to flush. Her face, her neck, every inch of exposed flesh turned an angry red—a stark indication of her allergy.

Jasper couldn’t take it any longer. He yanked the bottle from her hands. “That’s enough! Yvonne’s here as my guest tonight. If there’s more drinking to be done, I’ll do it for her!”

Yvonne’s head swam, but her thoughts remained crystal clear. Wiping at the liquor on the corner of her mouth with an unsteady hand, she lifted her eyes to Samuel. Her lips curled into a faint, bitter smile, and she said, “Mr. Blackwell, happy birthday.”

The man sat there, unmoved, a cold presence stripped of humanity. His strikingly handsome face was caught in the half-light, shadow and glow sculpting him into something distant and unapproachable.

Yvonne could no longer discern the emotions on his face. It was as if... she didn’t know him anymore.

And perhaps she didn’t. Six years was plenty of time to change someone, to twist their features into something unrecognizable.

Six years ago, Samuel had been a man in a cheap white shirt. Now he wore an exquisitely tailored one, its expense evident in every stitch. He was standing right there in front of her, but somehow, it felt like he was miles and miles away.

Samuel didn’t speak again. His silence was permission enough for Yvonne to leave.

Gabriel picked up the pile of cash from the table and tossed it at Yvonne. She didn’t manage to catch it.

The bills scattered to the floor, falling around her feet.

"Young Madam Carrington," Gabriel drawled, his tone laced with mockery. "Money doesn’t come easy, you know. Tonight, you’re lucky. It’s Mr. Blackwell’s birthday, and he’s in a generous mood. He’ll let you go."

Yvonne nodded quickly, crouching down. Her hands, already raw and broken out in rashes, moved to gather the scattered bills. "Thank you, Mr. Blackwell. Thank you, Mr. Sterling. Thank you, Mr. Whitmore."

As she reached for the final bill, a handcrafted leather shoe, polished to a gleam, pressed down on it.

Samuel.

He loomed over her now, looking down with the contemptuous gaze one might reserve for an insect, or a grain of dust.

Yvonne tugged at the edge of the banknote, but he didn’t lift his foot. She kept her head bowed, and a single tear spilled from her eye, hitting the smooth surface of his shoe. Her voice cracked as she spoke:

"Mr. Blackwell, please. Please lift your foot and let me go."

"Yvonne," Samuel said, his voice as cold as the winter wind. "Do you feel wronged?"

"No... no, I don’t." Her voice shook, barely audible.

She didn’t dare feel wronged. This was her debt to him.

A humorless smile curved his lips, the kind of smile that carried no warmth, only a cruel edge. "Three years," he said softly, yet each word landed with the weight of a blow. "One thousand ninety-five days. Every single day I endured, barely scraping through... just like you are now. Yvonne, you have no right to feel wronged. Tonight? Consider it interest for those three years I served."