His Cruel Revenge, Her Secret Child

Fear was a cold, heavy stone in Rory's stomach as she pushed open the heavy oak door to the VIP booth.

The room was thick with expensive cigar smoke. Corbin was sprawled on a plush leather sofa, the undisputed king in his court. Kade Wexler and Julian Roth were positioned on either side of him like sentinels.

Kade's eyes roamed over her, a smirk playing on his lips. "Well, well. If it isn't little Rory Conway. Six years is a long time. Didn't picture you ending up on a stage, singing for your supper."

Rory ignored him. Her focus was entirely on the man in the center of the room. She kept her chin high, her hands clasped in front of her to hide their trembling. "Mr. Vance," she said, her voice tight. "You wanted to see me?"

Corbin let out a soft, humorless chuckle. He gestured with one hand toward the low table in front of him. On it sat an unopened bottle of Macallan 25 Year Old Scotch and a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. It had to be fifty thousand dollars.

"Your voice," he said, his tone deceptively mild, "brought back some... unpleasant memories for me." He leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "I'm prepared to offer you fifty thousand dollars to drink three glasses from that bottle of scotch. A small price to pay for an apology, don't you think?"

Rory's blood ran cold.

He knew. Of course, he knew. He remembered everything. He remembered the night in college when a single shot of tequila had landed her in the emergency room with a violent allergic reaction. He had been the one to hold her hair back while she was sick, the one who had stayed by her hospital bed all night, terrified.

He was using her body's greatest weakness as his weapon.

Julian shifted uncomfortably. "Corbin, come on. This isn't necessary. She..."

A single, glacial look from Corbin silenced him.

"Fifty grand to drink a few glasses of booze," Kade goaded, enjoying the show. "I'd call that a bargain. What's the matter, Conway? Too good for our money now? I seem to recall you taking a lot more from him in the past."

Every word was a needle, sinking deep into her skin.

She stared at the money. Fifty thousand dollars. It wasn't just money. It was a number. It was the down payment for Willa's surgery. It was months of the best medication. It was a safety net, a breath of air when she was drowning.

Her dignity versus her daughter's life. It wasn't a choice at all.

Corbin watched the war play out on her face, his expression one of detached, clinical interest. He was enjoying this, savoring the power he held over her.

"No?" he purred, his hand moving toward the stack of cash as if to withdraw the offer.

"I'll drink it," Rory heard herself say, her voice a raw croak.

A flicker of surprise crossed Corbin's face before it was replaced by a look of dark satisfaction. He had been right about her all along. She'd do anything for money.

She walked to the table on unsteady legs. Kade slid a heavy crystal tumbler toward her with a smug grin.

Rory ignored him. She picked up the heavy bottle, her fingers fumbling with the seal, and poured a generous measure into the glass. The amber liquid swirled, catching the light. She picked up the glass, raised it in a mock toast to Corbin, and downed it in one go.

The scotch was fire, a searing, molten liquid that scorched her throat and burned a path straight to her stomach. Her eyes watered, but she didn't stop. She slammed the empty glass down and immediately poured another, just as full. And then a third. She drank them both with the same desperate, self-destructive speed, the poison igniting a fire under her skin.

Corbin's smirk faltered. He had expected her to sip, to choke, to beg. He had not expected this raw, desperate display of self-destruction.

Julian turned his head away, unable to watch.

After the third glass, she dropped the bottle onto the plush carpet with a dull thud. Tears of pure physical agony were now streaming down her face. The room was starting to spin. A hot, prickling rash was already blooming across her neck and chest, a furious red tide. Her throat was tightening, each breath a sharp, whistling effort.

The allergic reaction was starting. Fast and violent.

She swayed on her feet, her vision blurring at the edges. She looked directly at Corbin, her gaze a mixture of shattered pride and raw hatred. "Now," she rasped, her voice thick and swollen. "Can I have my money?"

A violent cough wracked her body, and she struggled to draw a breath.

Corbin stared at her, at the angry red flush spreading across her skin, at her swollen lips, at the tears that made her eyes shine with a broken, feverish light. The triumphant thrill of revenge he had expected to feel was absent. In its place was a sharp, unfamiliar pang of something he refused to name.