Page 19

Mandy

I curled into the corner of Amy's worn couch, knees pulled tight against my chest like a shield. The blinds were half-closed, filtering dusty light across the living room in stripes that caught on my phone screen as I clutched it. Five days since I'd run from Thor in the park. Five days of hiding and crying and wondering how the hell my life had imploded so completely.

The apartment was tiny but neat, with medical paperwork stacked in precise piles on the kitchen counter. Amy was at the hospital for an extended treatment—three weeks minimum—which made this the perfect hiding place. No one would look for me here. Not my former colleagues. Not the Heavy Kings. Not the Serpents. And definitely not Thor.

I scrolled through my emails again, though the words had stopped making sense hours ago. My thumb hovered over the unread message from HR at Prestige Partners. I'd already read it three times, but somehow seeing it again might change the outcome.

It didn't.

"We regret to inform you that your position has been terminated, effective immediately..."

My breath caught in my throat, a familiar panic rising. My fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles white. Seven years at the firm. Seven years of sixty-hour weeks, perfect audits, and impeccable reports. All of it gone because someone had leaked those photos.

My phone vibrated again. Another email from Prestige, this one from my direct supervisor: "Your personal items have been packed and are available for pickup at reception."

I felt sick. They'd cleared out my office already, probably while gossiping about the photos everyone had seen. Photos of me having sex with Thor. Photos of me in my Little space at Thor's cabin. Me in my pink overalls and pigtails.

The shame burned through me all over again, acidic and hot. No one was supposed to see that side of me. Not ever.

My fingers moved to the phone's voicemail icon, hovering over the little red "3" that marked unplayed messages. All from Memorial Hospital's financial department. I'd been ignoring them for days, knowing what they would say. No job meant no insurance. No insurance meant Amy's treatments would stop.

I hit play and put the phone on speaker, letting the automated voice fill the quiet apartment.

"First unheard message..."

"Ms. Wright, this is Carol from Memorial Hospital Financial Services. We've been notified of a change in your insurance status and need to discuss payment options for your sister's ongoing treatment. Please call us back at your earliest convenience."

Delete.

"Second unheard message..."

"Ms. Wright, this is Carol again. It's urgent that we speak regarding your sister's financial arrangements. Her next treatment is scheduled for next week, and we need to confirm payment method. Please call us back immediately."

Delete.

"Third unheard message..."

"Amanda, this is Dr. Reeves. I understand there may be issues with insurance coverage for Amy. Please contact our financial department as soon as possible. We don't want to interrupt Amy's treatment protocol, but we need to address the financial situation. Call us."

Delete.

Panic clawed at my throat, making it hard to breathe. I dropped the phone onto the couch and pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the tears that threatened to fall. Again. I'd cried so much in the past five days that it was a wonder I had any tears left.

Amy's treatments cost thousands per session. Without insurance, there was no way I could afford them, even if I found another job immediately. And who would hire me now? The photos had spread through Ironridge's business community like wildfire. My professional reputation was as ruined as my personal one.

I forced myself to stand, my legs stiff from being curled up for so long. On Amy's bed, I'd laid out my interview clothes—a plain navy skirt suit I'd bought years ago for my first job interviews out of college. It was conservative, unremarkable. Nothing like the designer outfits I'd worn at Prestige, bought with bonuses and promotions I'd earned through years of dedicated work.

I picked up the jacket, feeling the cheap polyester blend under my fingers. It would have to do. Beggars couldn't be choosers, and that's what I was now—a beggar, hoping some construction company would overlook the scandal and hire me to manage their books.

The memory of Thor's cabin hit me like a physical blow—a sanctuary where I could let go and be little, where the weight of being perfect Amanda Wright, CPA, could slip away for a few precious hours.

In the bathroom mirror, a stranger stared back at me. Dark circles shadowed my eyes, and my copper hair hung limp around my face. I looked nothing like the polished professional who had confidently walked into corner offices to advise clients on tax strategy. I looked broken.

Too many shed tears.

"Get it together, Amanda," I whispered to my reflection, the words falling flat in the small bathroom. There was no room for my Little side anymore. No room for weakness. I had to be strong—for Amy, for myself.

I twisted my hair into a severe bun, applied concealer to hide the worst of the dark circles, and added a touch of mascara and lip gloss. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

My phone buzzed again as I was slipping on my shoes. I glanced at the screen: "URGENT: financial matters" from Memorial Hospital. My stomach twisted into knots. I couldn't deal with that now, not before this interview. I silenced the phone and shoved it into my purse.

One step at a time. Get through the interview. Get a job. Figure out how to save Amy's treatments. Don't think about Thor or the Heavy Kings or the photos that had destroyed everything.

I grabbed my purse and the folder containing my resume, forcing my chin up and my shoulders back as I headed for the door. The interview was in twenty minutes, and I couldn't afford to be late. I couldn't afford to fail.

Because if I did, it wouldn't just be my life in ruins—it would be Amy's too.

I ronridge Builders, Inc. occupied the second floor of a faded strip mall, wedged between a discount liquor store and a vape shop that had "CLOSED PERMANENTLY" taped to its window. I sat in my car, staring up at the sun-bleached sign above an auto parts store, wondering if this was rock bottom or if I still had further to fall. The parking lot was cracked asphalt with weeds pushing through like persistent little middle fingers aimed at anyone who thought they might escape this place. Two weeks ago, I would have been sitting in the underground parking garage at Prestige, climate-controlled and squeaky clean. Now here I was, sweat trickling down my back as I psyched myself up to beg for a job that paid a third of my former salary.

The metal exterior staircase clanged under my heels as I made my way up, the sound announcing my arrival to anyone who cared to listen. A cigarette butt smoldered in a sand-filled bucket by the door, recently abandoned. The door itself was painted a shade of brown that might have once been dignified but now just looked tired.

I straightened my shoulders, tugged my ill-fitting jacket into place, and pushed open the door marked "Ironridge Builders, Inc." in peeling gold letters.

The reception area was a generous description for what amounted to a metal desk cluttered with stacks of paper, a fake plant with dust-coated leaves, and three plastic chairs that had seen better days. The walls were bare except for a collection of calendars—some featuring bikini models sprawled across construction equipment, others displaying the equipment alone, as if the company couldn't decide which fantasy to promote.

Behind the desk sat a young woman with bleached blonde hair that was growing out, dark roots forming a stark line of demarcation about an inch from her scalp. She wore a tight tank top and chewed gum with methodical precision, her eyes glued to her phone. She didn't look up when I entered.

I cleared my throat. "Hi, I'm Amanda Wright. I have an appointment with Mr. Phillips at two."

She glanced up, her eyes traveling over my suit with the quick assessment of someone used to judging others. She smacked her gum twice before responding.

"Right. He's expecting you." She pointed a long, pink-tipped nail toward a door with frosted glass. "Through there."

No offer to announce me. No "have a seat." Nothing.

"Thank you," I said anyway, moving toward the door.

I knocked lightly on the frosted glass door.

"Yeah, come in," called a voice from inside.

The office beyond was cramped and smelled of cigarettes despite a boldly posted "No Smoking" sign on the wall. A desk that had seen better days dominated the small space, its surface buried under a disorganized pile of blueprints, invoices, and fast-food wrappers.

Behind it sat Devin Phillips—a man in his mid-forties with a combover that wasn't fooling anyone and a shirt that strained against his belly. He rose when I entered, extending a hand across the desk.

"Amanda Wright," he said, his handshake lingering a beat too long. His palm was clammy against mine. "Have a seat."

The only available chair was a metal folding chair with a thin cushion. I perched on it, setting my purse carefully beside me on the floor and placing my resume folder on my lap.

"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Phillips," I said, adopting the professional tone I'd perfected over years at Prestige. "I appreciate the opportunity."

His gaze slid from my face down my body and back again, not even attempting to hide his appraisal. I fought the urge to cross my arms over my chest.

"Your resume is impressive," he said, leaning back in his chair. It creaked ominously. "Prestige Partners? That's big league stuff. Senior financial analyst, executive client portfolio manager—fancy titles."

He made them sound like jokes. I forced a small smile.

"Yes, I handled the financial management for several of their high-profile clients, as well as internal auditing and tax compliance. I believe those skills would transfer well to—"

"So why are you interested in our little operation?" he interrupted, gesturing around the shabby office. "Bit of a step down, isn't it? We're not exactly Fortune 500 material here."

I launched into my prepared explanation, the one I'd practiced in Amy's bathroom mirror this morning.

"I'm looking for new challenges in a different industry. Construction is growing in this region, and I believe my expertise could help Ironridge Builders optimize its financial operations and potentially expand. Sometimes a change of environment can be refreshing professionally."

The words sounded hollow even to me. Phillips wasn't buying it either. His smile never reached his eyes, which remained cold and evaluating. He leaned forward, elbows on his cluttered desk.

"Let's cut the bullshit, Ms. Wright. I know who you are."

My heart stuttered in my chest. I kept my expression neutral through sheer force of will. "I'm not sure what you mean."

He turned his computer monitor so it faced me and clicked his mouse a few times. My blood turned to ice as a photo appeared on the screen.

Me, in Thor's cabin, beneath him, in bed.

Naked.

"These have been making the rounds," Phillips said, clicking through to show more images. Me in my pink onesie. Me sitting on Thor's lap while he read me a story. "Quite the scandal. Turns out the Kings' accountant has some unusual hobbies."

Each click felt like a physical blow. The room seemed to tilt around me. I gripped the edges of my resume folder so tightly that my nails dug through the paper.

"That's—" I started, but my voice cracked. I swallowed hard and tried again. "That's private."

"Nothing's private anymore, sweetheart." Phillips leaned back, enjoying my discomfort. "Gotta say, it's not what I expected when I heard about the Heavy Kings' financial wizard. Though I guess it explains why a guy like Thor Eriksson kept you around." His smirk turned ugly. "What exactly did you do for him, besides playing dress-up?"

The implication was clear, and rage flashed hot through my veins, temporarily overwhelming the shame and fear. That he would reduce what Thor and I had to something tawdry—that he would take something pure and twist it—made me want to slap the smug expression off his face.

"I'm a certified public accountant with seven years of experience," I said, my voice deadly quiet. "I managed complex portfolios worth millions of dollars. My personal life is irrelevant to my professional qualifications."

Phillips laughed, the sound grating against my nerves like sandpaper.

"Your 'personal life' involves dressing up like a toddler for one of the most dangerous men in Ironridge. You really think anyone's going to hire you after seeing these? Half the business owners in town have these photos on their phones by now."

Nausea rose in my throat. The room felt too hot, too small. I couldn't get enough air. The walls of my carefully constructed life were crumbling around me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Slowly, I stood. My legs felt unsteady beneath me, but I forced myself to stand straight, to maintain what little dignity I had left.

"I appreciate your time, Mr. Phillips," I said, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounded, "but I don't think this position is right for me."

His laugh followed me as I turned to leave. "Good luck finding someone who'll hire you now!" he called after me. "Maybe the Kings need a babysitter!"

I didn't respond. I didn't look back. I walked through the reception area with my chin up, ignoring the receptionist's curious stare. Only when I reached the stairwell did I allow my composure to slip, gripping the railing so tightly my knuckles turned white as I descended to the parking lot.

The heat hit me like a wall when I stepped outside, but I barely felt it. My mind was racing, cataloging the damage. He must have just googled me and found the pictures. Maybe someone at Prestige had leaked them? If Phillips could find those photos, then anyone could. Every potential employer. Everyone I'd ever worked with at Prestige. My professional reputation wasn't just damaged—it was obliterated.

I made it to my car on autopilot, fumbling with the keys three times before managing to unlock the door. Once inside, I sat perfectly still, staring through the windshield at nothing.

It was over. All of it. Everything I'd worked for. Everything I'd built. All gone because someone had leaked those photos. Because I'd trusted Thor with the most vulnerable part of myself. Because I'd let myself believe I could have both worlds—the professional success and the personal fulfillment.

I was a fool. And now I was paying for it.

I sat in my rental car—a ten-year-old Civic that smelled faintly of fast food and someone else's cologne—and stared at the steering wheel like it might offer answers.

My Audi was still, presumably, in Thor’s garage. I’d get it back some time, but no doubt I’d sell it as soon as I got it. I needed cash, especially as it felt like my last hope of employment in this town had evaporated like morning dew.

Something broke inside me then. A dam I'd been desperately shoring up for days finally cracked, sending a torrent of emotion rushing through me. I slammed my palm against the steering wheel once, twice, then couldn't stop. My hands curled into fists, pounding against the cheap plastic as sobs tore from my throat.

"Fuck!" I screamed, the word exploding from me with such force it hurt my throat. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

Every blow against the wheel was punctuated by a sob or a curse. I cried for my lost career, for my shattered privacy, for Amy's treatments hanging in the balance. I cried for the sacred trust that had been violated when those photos were leaked. I cried for Thor, for the look of betrayal on his face in the park, for the loss of the one place I'd felt truly safe to be myself.

My hands stung. My throat ached. Tears and snot ran down my face, but I couldn't stop. Months—years—of carefully controlled emotions poured out of me in a frenzy of frustrated rage.

"Seven fucking years," I sobbed, my voice ragged. "Seven fucking years of perfect work, and they just—" I couldn't finish the sentence.

My phone rang, cutting through my breakdown. I ignored it, too far gone in my grief to care. It stopped, then started again almost immediately. On the third ring, I grabbed it with shaking hands, ready to scream at whoever was interrupting my meltdown.

The screen displayed "Memorial Hospital." It was the fourth call today.

I wiped at my face with the sleeve of my jacket, smearing tears and makeup across the cheap fabric. I couldn't ignore them anymore. Amy was receiving treatment right now. If they canceled it because of non-payment . . .

I took a deep, shuddering breath and answered.

"Hello?" My voice sounded like I'd been gargling broken glass.

"Ms. Wright? This is Linda from Memorial Hospital Financial Services. We've been trying to reach you urgently."

I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the steering wheel.

"I know. I'm sorry." The words came out in a cracked whisper. "I lost my job and the insurance. I'm trying to figure something out for Amy's treatments." My voice broke on my sister's name. "Please don't stop them. I can sell my car, maybe get a loan—"

"Ms. Wright," Linda interrupted, her tone gentler than I expected. "That's not why we're calling."

I blinked, confused. "It's not?"

"No. We're trying to reach you because there's been a payment made to your sister's account."

The statement didn't make sense. My brain, foggy from crying and stress, couldn't process the words.

"A payment? The co-pay isn't due until next week."

Linda's voice softened even further. "No, Ms. Wright. Someone has paid the entire balance—every outstanding charge. And they've established an account for all future treatments as well. Your sister's medical care is completely covered."

I sat up straight, certain I'd misheard. "What?"

"All of Amy's medical expenses have been paid in full," Linda repeated carefully. "Past, present, and future treatment costs are now covered by a special fund that's been established in her name."

"That's not possible," I whispered. "The balance is—" I couldn't even say it aloud. The last time I'd checked, Amy's outstanding medical bills totaled over two hundred thousand dollars. Future treatments would cost nearly the same. "There must be some mistake."

"There's no mistake, Ms. Wright. The payment was processed this morning. I have all the confirmation numbers right in front of me."

I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to process this information. "I don't understand. Who would do that? Was it the hospital? Some kind of charity program?"

"No, it was a private donation. Made specifically for Amy Wright's care."

My mind raced, trying to make sense of it. Amy had friends, but none with those kinds of resources. And my friends . . . well, most of them worked at Prestige and had disappeared when the scandal broke.

"Who?" I asked, my voice barely audible. "Who made the payment?"

There was a pause, the sound of papers shuffling.

"The benefactor requested anonymity officially," Linda said, "but they left a message they asked us to pass along to you."

My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my fingertips. "What message?"

Another brief pause, more paper shuffling. "It's brief. It says: 'I'm sorry, and I love you. Thor.'"

The world tilted beneath me.

Thor.

He'd paid Amy's medical bills. All of them. And secured her future care.

"Ms. Wright? Are you still there?"

I realized I'd been silent for too long. "Yes," I managed. "I'm here. Thank you for letting me know."

"Would you like me to send you the documentation for the account?" Linda asked. "There's some paperwork you'll need to sign as Amy's medical proxy, but it's mostly formalities."

"Yes, please," I said automatically, still reeling. "You can email it to me."

We wrapped up the call with details I barely registered. After ending it, I sat staring blankly out the windshield at the crumbling strip mall, the gravity of Thor's act settling over me like a physical weight.

Thor must have used all his own money to cover that sum. The extent of the sacrifice was staggering. And for what? For me? For Amy? For a woman who had lied to him by omission and then run away when confronted?

Fresh tears began to flow, but these were different—quiet, cleansing tears that washed away the bitterness and despair of the past week.

He loved me. Despite everything, he loved me.

And I had run from him. I had ignored his calls and texts. I had hidden at my sister's apartment, assuming the worst of him when he had just performed an act of generosity so profound it took my breath away.

What kind of person did something like that? What kind of man?

Not the dangerous biker I'd first met, all intimidation and fierce protectiveness. Not the gentle giant who'd cradled me when I slipped into my Little space. Something more. Something I didn't fully understand yet.

My fingers trembled as I reached for the ignition. For the first time in days, I knew exactly where I needed to go. The shame and fear that had paralyzed me seemed to recede, replaced by a fierce need to see him, to understand, to thank him—though "thank you" seemed hopelessly inadequate for what he'd done.

I started the car, my mind racing ahead. Would he even see me after I'd run? Would he let me explain? I had no idea what I would say to him, how I could possibly make things right. But I had to try.

For Amy. For Thor. For myself.