CONTRACT OF VENGEANCE:His Contract Wife, His Enemy

SAMORA'S POV

The fluorescent lights flicker above me like they're having a seizure. I'm hunched over the sink in St. Mary's Hospital bathroom, gripping the cold porcelain so hard my knuckles have gone white. The antiseptic smell burns my nose but it's nothing compared to the burning in my chest.

Three hundred and twenty-seven thousand dollars.

That's what Dr. Martinez just told me it'll cost for the experimental treatment that might save my mom's life. Might. Not will, might. And we have three months before the cancer takes that choice away from us completely.

I splash cold water on my face and catch my reflection in the mirror. Twenty-four years old and I look like I've aged ten years in the past six months. Dark circles under my brown eyes, hair pulled back in a messy bun that's seen better days. My scrubs from the cleaning job are wrinkled and smell like industrial-strength disinfectant.

How long have I been fighting this? Six months since the diagnosis, but really it's been two years since Mom first started getting tired. Two years of doctor visits we couldn't afford, insurance claims that got denied for mysterious reasons, and me working myself into the ground trying to keep us afloat.

I lean against the bathroom wall and let myself slide down until I'm sitting on the cold tile floor. This is my breaking point. I can feel it in my bones.

---

"How did it go, baby?" Mom's voice is barely a whisper when I walk back into her room. She's propped up against the pillows, trying to look stronger than we both know she is. The chemo has taken most of her hair, but she still insists on putting on lipstick every morning. "For morale," she always says.

"Good news," I lie, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack my face. "Dr. Martinez thinks the new treatment protocol is really promising."

She knows I'm lying. I can see it in her eyes – the same dark brown as mine – but she doesn't call me out on it. We've gotten good at protecting each other from the truth.

"That's wonderful, sweetheart." Her hand finds mine and squeezes weakly. "I was just thinking about when you were seven and had that fever. Remember? You were so sick but you kept insisting you were fine because you didn't want to miss the school play."

I remember. I also remember how she stayed up with me all night, putting cool washcloths on my forehead and singing old gospel songs until the fever broke. Now it's my turn to take care of her, and I'm failing.

"You always were my strong girl," she whispers. "But you don't have to be strong all the time, you know that right?"

If only she knew how not-strong I feel right now.

---

I calculate the numbers for the hundredth time while riding the bus home, hoping math will somehow work differently this time. It doesn't.

Monthly income from all three jobs: $3,200 if I'm lucky and nobody cancels shifts.

Monthly expenses: $4,800 and climbing.

Current savings: $347 and some change.

Credit cards: maxed out at $15,000 total.

Treatment cost: $327,000.

The math is so impossible it's almost funny. Almost.

What makes it worse is how everything started falling apart at once. Three weeks ago, the insurance company denied Mom's claim for some bullshit technicality about "pre-existing conditions." Then Hope Foundation rejected our application after initially saying we were a perfect candidate. The bank laughed me out of their office when I asked about a loan. Even the medical credit company turned us down.

It's like someone's playing a sick joke on us. Or like someone with power decided we weren't worth saving.

I close my eyes and rest my head against the bus window. The city passes by in a blur of lights and I wonder how many people in those glowing apartment buildings go to bed without calculating whether they can afford to save their mother's life.

---

6 AM comes too early, but it always does when you've been lying awake all night staring at the ceiling.

I'm at the Morrison Financial building downtown, mopping floors that probably cost more per square foot than I make in a month. The place is empty except for security and me, which is how I like it. No one to pretend in front of.

My knees ache as I work my way down the hallway. Twenty-four years old and my body already feels broken. The cleaning chemicals make my hands crack and bleed, but I can't afford gloves. Every dollar has to go toward keeping us alive another day.

I pause in front of a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The nameplate reads "Adrian Rourke, CEO." Never seen him, but judging by the office, he makes more in a day than I make in a year. His desk is huge and spotless, probably costs more than our rent.

Must be nice to never worry about money. Must be nice to sleep at night.

---

By 2 PM I'm across town, sitting in the Hendersons' pristine living room trying to help their thirteen-year-old daughter understand algebra. Emma's a sweet kid, but she has no idea how good she has it. Her biggest worry is whether to take French or Spanish next semester.

"So if X equals seven, then what's three X plus four?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice patient.

"Umm... twenty-five?" Emma chews on her pencil, a habit that would probably mortify her socialite mother.

"Right! See, you're getting it."

Her mom sweeps into the room carrying shopping bags that probably cost more than I make in a week. "How's our little scholar doing?"

"Great, Mrs. Henderson. Emma's really starting to grasp the concepts."

She beams like Emma just discovered the cure for cancer instead of basic algebra. Must be nice to have such small problems.

My phone buzzes. Unknown number.

"Excuse me one second." I step into the hallway to answer.

"Is this Samora Morrison?" The voice is male, professional, and unfamiliar.

"Yes, who's this?"

"My name is Richard Patterson, I'm an attorney representing a client who wishes to remain anonymous. I'm calling regarding your mother's medical situation."

My blood goes cold. "I'm sorry, what?"

"My client has been made aware of your family's circumstances and would like to discuss a substantial offer that could resolve your financial concerns."

I grip the phone tighter. "What kind of offer? And how do you know about my mother?"

"I'd prefer to discuss the details in person. Would you be available to meet tomorrow at 2 PM? Our offices are downtown."

Every instinct I have is screaming that this is too good to be true. Nobody offers to solve problems like mine without wanting something in return. But that little voice in the back of my head – the desperate one that's been growing louder every day – whispers that maybe this is the miracle I've been praying for.

"What does your client want in return?"

"All the details will be explained tomorrow. I can assure you this is a legitimate offer that could solve all your financial concerns regarding your mother's treatment."

All my financial concerns. Three hundred and twenty-seven thousand dollars worth of concerns.

"I... okay. Yes. I'll be there."

"Excellent. I'll text you the address. Miss Williams?"

"Yes?"

"I think you'll find this conversation very worthwhile."

He hangs up and I'm left staring at my phone, heart pounding. Emma calls from the living room asking for help with the next problem, but all I can think about is that phrase: "all your financial concerns."

What would I have to do to earn that kind of money? And why would a stranger want to help us?

---

6 PM at Rosario's Italian, and I'm forcing my face into a smile that feels like plastic. My feet are killing me from running around all day, but I need this job. Can't afford to lose any source of income, no matter how small.

"Can I get you started with some drinks?" I ask the couple at table twelve. They don't even look up from their phones.

"Whatever's fine," the woman says dismissively. "And we're in a hurry."

Of course you are. Everyone's always in a hurry except when it comes to tipping.

I'm taking their order when my phone buzzes with a text from the attorney. Address downtown, fancy building I've walked past a thousand times but never thought I'd have reason to enter.

"Excuse me, miss?" The man at table twelve sounds irritated. "We asked for no onions."

I look down at the order I wrote. No onions, just like he asked. "Of course, sir. I'll get that fixed right away."

In the kitchen, I lean against the prep counter and try to breathe. My hands are shaking. Tomorrow I'm going to walk into some lawyer's office and find out what a stranger wants from me in exchange for saving my mother's life.

Because that's what this is, isn't it? Nobody gives away that kind of money without expecting something in return. The question is what, and whether I'll be able to live with myself after I agree to it.

Because I already know I'm going to say yes. Whatever this mysterious client wants, I'll do it. I have to.

Mom needs that treatment, and I'm the only one who can get it for her.

---

It's almost midnight when I finally make it home to our tiny apartment. Mom's asleep, her breathing shallow but steady. I sit in the chair beside her bed and watch her chest rise and fall, counting each breath like I have every night for the past month.

She looks so small under the blankets. So fragile. This woman who raised me by herself, who worked two jobs to put me through community college, who never complained even when life kept knocking her down. She doesn't deserve this.

"I'm gonna fix this, Mama," I whisper. "I don't know how yet, but I'm gonna fix it."

She stirs slightly and her eyes flutter open. "Sam? Baby, you should be sleeping."

"Just got home. How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been hit by a truck." She tries to smile. "But I'm still here."

"You're still here," I repeat, taking her hand. "And you're gonna stay here, okay? I've got a meeting tomorrow that might... that might help with everything."

She studies my face in the dim light from the street lamp outside our window. "What kind of meeting?"

"Just some financial stuff. Don't worry about it."

She squeezes my hand with what little strength she has left. "Samora Marie Morrison, I've been your mother for twenty-four years. I know when you're scared."

I want to tell her everything. About the money, about the mysterious phone call, about how I'm willing to do anything to save her. But I can't add that burden to everything she's already carrying.

"I'm always scared, Mama. But I'm not giving up."

She closes her eyes and smiles. "My strong girl."

I sit there until her breathing evens out and I'm sure she's asleep. Then I go to my own room and stare at the ceiling, counting down the hours until 2 PM tomorrow.

Whatever that lawyer wants to tell me, whatever his client is offering, I already know my answer.

Yes.

The word echoes in my mind as I finally drift off to sleep, and I wonder what I'm about to sell my soul for.