Now my mother lay in a public hospital, her heart failing. The doctors gave her weeks. The only hope was a transplant—five million pesos. Money we no longer had.
Desperate, I swallowed every ounce of pride I had left and went to Julian’s penthouse.
He was lounging on his leather sofa, a glass of vintage wine in hand, looking like the devil who already owned my soul.
“Clara, Clara,” he chuckled. “Look at you. Kneeling. I’ve waited a long time for this.”
I begged. I cried. I told him I would do anything.
A cruel smile spread across his face.
