Trapped By The Billionaire Doctor's Debt

Emilia opened her eyes to the murky, gray half-light of the hotel suite. Heavy blackout curtains swallowed the morning, leaving only a thin blade of sun slicing through the gap.

The immediate, searing rip between her legs made her gasp. She sucked in a sharp, ragged breath, her lungs burning as the thick stench of stale whiskey and sour sweat clogged her nose and throat.

She tried to push herself upright. The silk blanket slithered off her shoulders, exposing bare skin littered with dark red bruises—some the size of thumbprints, others raw, angry scratches. Fragments of last night's frantic, suffocating weight crashed into her skull like shards of broken glass. Her stomach heaved, acid climbing up her throat.

She turned her head.

Across the vast, wrecked bed, a tall man stood with his back to her. His silhouette was cut against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the pale morning light tracing the hard lines of his shoulders, the narrow taper of his waist.

He was slowly, methodically fastening the silver cufflinks of his tailored white shirt. His movements were unhurried, precise—the movements of a man who had already dismissed her from his mind.

At the sound of her sharp intake of air, his hands stopped.

Clifton turned around.

His deep, cold eyes cut through the morning shadows and locked directly onto her. They were the color of black ice—flat, impenetrable, utterly devoid of warmth.

The sheer, predatory aggression in his stare made Emilia's skin prickle as if a thousand needles were pressing into her flesh. Panic seized her throat, thick and suffocating. She instinctively grabbed the slipping blanket and yanked it up to her collarbone, gripping the silk so tightly her knuckles bleached stark white against her trembling hands.

Clifton watched her defensive scramble. A cruel, mocking smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth—barely a twitch, but unmistakable. He took slow, deliberate steps toward the bed, each footfall silent on the thick carpet.

He stood over her, looking down. There was no trace of last night's heat in his expression. It was a pure, calculating assessment. The way a buyer inspects a product he's already decided is defective.

Emilia's whole body trembled under that gaze. But the image of her father—pale, gaunt, lying in a hospital bed with tubes snaking from his arms—flashed behind her eyes. She forced her chin up, meeting his terrifying stare with her own desperate defiance.

She bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper. "The money," she said, her voice a raw, shredded rasp. "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 along his razor-sharp jaw. He despised women like this—women who sold pieces of themselves to the darkest corners of the city for a paycheck, then demanded payment with trembling hands and righteous eyes.

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

"Your performance