I Tore Up His Check, Then He Bought My Life

Essence stared straight ahead at the floral centerpiece. "I didn't know I was expected."

"I always expect you," Fielding said. He picked up his fork. "Eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"You look starving. You've lost weight. The nurse's salary doesn't cover groceries?"

The insult was delivered with such casual elegance that it took a second to sting. Essence turned to him. "My salary covers exactly what I need it to. My dignity."

Fielding's lips twitched. It wasn't a smile. It was a micro-expression of amusement. "Dignity. Is that what you call that dress? It looks like it's trying to strangle you."

"It's vintage."

"It's old. Like our history."

The waiter placed an appetizer in front of them-tuna tartare. Essence picked up her fork, her hand trembling slightly. She hated that he could see it. She hated that her body betrayed her fear so openly.

Across the table, Chloie had managed to swap seats to get closer. She was leaning forward, her eyes darting between Fielding and Essence like a spectator at a tennis match.

"Fielding," Chloie called out, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. "We were just saying how... brave it is of you to come out. The Swiss clinics must have done wonders. Is the degeneration... slowing down?"

It was a rude question. A cruel question.

Fielding didn't stop cutting his tuna. "The only thing degenerating in this room, Chloie, is your father's credibility. I heard he's under investigation by the SEC. Again."

Chloie paled. She opened her mouth, then closed it.

She turned her venom on the easier target. "Well, at least some of us are maintaining our standards. Essence was just telling us about her new life. Scrubbing floors and emptying bedpans. Tell Fielding, Essence. Tell him about your career."

Essence gripped her fork until her knuckles turned white. "I am an ER nurse, Chloie. I save lives. I don't just spend money I didn't earn."

"Oh, touché," Chloie laughed nervously. "But you must miss the jet. The Hamptons house. Tell me, is it true you're living in a walk-up in Queens with a roommate? It's such a long way from the penthouse you thought you were entitled to."

The table went quiet. They were waiting for the kill.

Essence felt the shame rise up her neck, hot and suffocating. She reached for her water glass to hide her face.

Her hand shook.

Her fingers brushed the stem of the champagne flute next to the water. It tipped.

Crash.

The sound was explosive in the quiet tension of the high table. The crystal shattered against the china plate. Champagne sprayed across the white tablecloth, soaking into the fabric like a golden bloodstain. Droplets splattered onto Essence's dress.

"Oh!" Essence jumped up, her chair scraping back. "I'm so sorry, I-"

"Look at that," Chloie sneered. "Nurse's hands aren't very steady, are they? I hope you don't drop the patients."

Essence felt tears prick her eyes. It was too much. The exhaustion, the shoes, the hunger, the humiliation. She reached for a napkin, dabbing frantically at the spill.

A hand appeared in her vision.

It was large, pale, and steady. It held a handkerchief made of white Irish linen, embroidered with the initials F.H.

Fielding.

He wasn't looking at Chloie. He was looking at the spill, his expression unreadable.

"Take it," he ordered.

Essence hesitated. She looked at his hand. Then she reached out to take the cloth.

As her fingers closed around the linen, her hand brushed against his.

His skin was ice cold.

The contact sent a jolt of electricity up her arm that was so intense it was painful. She jerked her hand back, clutching the handkerchief.

Fielding's eyes dropped. They didn't look at the spill. They looked at her left hand.

Specifically, at her ring finger.

Essence wasn't wearing the gloves anymore. And there, catching the light of the chandelier, was the ring Nathan had given her three months ago. It was a modest gold band with a small, slightly cloudy diamond. It had cost him two months' salary.

Fielding went still.

The temperature at the table seemed to drop ten degrees. The air grew heavy, charged with ozone.

"What," Fielding said, his voice barely a whisper, "is that?"

Chloie leaned in, squinting. "Oh my god. Is that a ring? A zirconia? Are you engaged?"

Essence covered the ring with her other hand. "It's a diamond. And yes. I'm engaged."

Fielding slowly set down his knife. The silver clinked against the porcelain. He turned his wheelchair slightly, angling his entire body toward her. The indifference was gone. In its place was a cold, focused rage that made her stomach turn over.

"Engaged," he repeated. The word sounded foreign in his mouth. "To whom?"

"His name is Nathan," Essence said. She tried to sound proud, but her voice was thin. "He's a doctor. A resident."

"A doctor," Fielding said. He picked up his steak knife again. He looked at the blade, watching the light reflect off the serrated edge. "How noble. Does he know?"

"Know what?"

Fielding looked up. His eyes were black holes. "Does he know about the contract?"

Essence gasped. "That contract isn't valid, Fielding. I was under duress. And you... you were gone."

Fielding smiled. It was a terrifying, sharp thing. He pressed the tip of the knife into the tablecloth, right into the center of the champagne stain.

"Section 4, Paragraph 2. Absence does not constitute nullification. You signed a two-hundred-page document, Essence. You bound yourself to the Hancock estate in exchange for immunity." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping so only she could hear. "And neither does my patience. But it's running very, very low."