3. HATE

LAYLA || NOW

Layla held her breath, waiting for him to speak, anything, beyond silently observing her. His eyes scanned her from head to toe, with no attempt at discretion. Why would he? He feared nothing.

She’d seen this look before, the anger in men’s gazes before they struck, the lust while she worked in bars, the triumph in their smirks as all she could do was glare at filthy hands. But his stare was different. Nothing. No emotion. No judgment. No softness. No expression. And that terrified her. He could do anything, and there was no way to predict it, let alone escape.

Her past had taught her one thing: never show weakness. Predators thrived on it. So she straightened her spine, meeting his gaze. Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, or was it her imagination?

“It takes some nerve to stalk me,” he said casually, his deep voice settling into her stomach like lead.

“Des… desperation,” she whispered, hoarse and ashamed of her trembling voice.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t demand anything. Nothing. And at that moment, she wanted to cry. She was exhausted—every effort seemed fruitless. Tears welled before she could stop them. The brave facade crumbled.

“Please…” she begged. “My little girl has no option.” She hated begging, yet would do anything for Lilly.

“On your knees,” he ordered.

A shiver ran down her spine. She knew where this was going. But if kneeling could save Lilly, she would endure it. Without hesitation, she lowered herself, fists clenched at her sides, preparing for whatever he demanded. He could do as he pleased; she would bear the shame afterward. SHE IS NOT A WHORE—but in that room, she would appear to be one.

He stepped closer, and she squeezed her eyes shut, tears spilling despite her effort to hold them back. Shame burned hot. She was a mother.

“You would sell your body for your daughter?” he asked, eyes boring into the top of her head.

“If that’s what it takes to help her,” she whispered.

“If you’re trying to gain sympathy with your little girl, you’re doing an awful job,” he said.

Her nails dug into her palms, fury coursing through her veins. “I wouldn’t even look at your face if it wasn’t for her.”

“Last I checked, you were supposed to beg,” he snapped.

He showed her place. He revealed his true colors. A monster, after all.

Tears glistened as she looked at him, and his eyes narrowed. “What does it take to get you to agree?”

He stepped closer. “Take off my belt,” he said, and her heart skipped a beat. Dread tightened around her chest. She fumbled, trembling, clinging to every shard of composure.

FOR LILLY. FOR HER LITTLE GIRL. FOR THE PROMISE OF GIVING HER THE WORLD.

Zaley cupped her chin, tilting her face upward. His thumb traced her lips, and she trembled. “You would do anything?”

She nodded desperately, completely at his mercy. “It’s not a big surgery,” she whispered, kneeling between his legs.

Please, say yes. Please, save her.

He shoved a finger into her mouth. She froze. In her mind, it seemed simple—blow him and give herself—but she hadn’t done this in years. She wasn’t ready. She never would be.

“You are broken,” he said, expression stoic. “What do I do with a broken doll?”

She had no answer. She was a lost cause—no hope, no future, no self. Only Lilly kept her alive. Without her, she would have ended the misery long ago.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Swallowing, hope stirred. “La… Layla,” she breathed. Would that be enough to sway him? She had to wait.

A hum escaped his throat. He stepped back, buckled his belt, and left her kneeling. His touch still burned, and whatever hope had surfaced withered before it grew.

Other women entered the bathroom, casting judgmental glances. Some smirked, hardened by the same life she led; some pitied her; others, who had never lived her struggles, looked disgusted. She had officially become one of those women—those who threw themselves to the big fish, hoping for pearls.

She watched him climb into a black SUV, six others trailing. Not a president, not a politician, not a celebrity—just a crime lord with unmatched power over the city.

She had failed again. One hour of makeup, an hour of travel, an hour managing a reluctant Lilly—gone. Nothing had changed. What would happen when she followed him again? Why hadn’t he taken what he wanted? She obeyed, endured—then why?

She vomited as soon as she reached home. She hated the club, those men, their hands, and most of all, the blue-eyed man who kept her on her knees without blinking. She hated her own helplessness. Could she change her life? Nothing could rewrite it—without Lilly, she was nothing.

“Mamma…” Lilly called. Layla wiped her face, plastered on a smile, and embraced her daughter.

“Hey, Sprinkles. Why aren’t you asleep?”

“You said we’d go to the park today," Lilly complianed. "You said we can see big-biig squeels. I want to bring one home and raise it.”

Layla’s chest tightened. Promises broken by money, by illness, by circumstance.

“I know. Something came up, Sprinkles. Next time,” she whispered. Lilly nodded and closed her eyes, too tired to argue. Layla held her, back aching, dismissing her pain as she always did. Lilly mattered most—Her little girl who can't even pronounce squirrels clearly. Layla would do anything for her.

“I promise,” she whispered silently, clinging to hope that one day they’d escape the city and the misery it held.

Her phone rang. She hated notifications but had no choice, Lilly’s life demanded vigilance. The email made her blink. An interview call. She read it again. Again. Her pulse quickened. The big “Z” at the bottom made her stomach twist.

Z’s Towers. ZED Corporation. Real estate technology department. For a technical writer role.