Page 32 of Ravaged By a Devil

Last night, after leaving Cain’s house in complete and utter humiliation, I called the clinic's line from the back of my cab, practically begging them to give me until the end of the week to sort out the initial payment for Milly's new prescription stack.

My hands tremble as I unlock the phone and click open the text.

The message flashes on the screen in clear text:

Dear Miss Hayes, this is a notification from Purity Clinic financial services. We are pleased to inform you that your balance, along with your pre-authorization prescription hold, has been paid in full via corporate wire transfer. Mrs. Milly Hayes's medication stack is cleared for immediate pickup.

My eyes widen, reading the sentence over and over until the letters blur together. Shock instantly gives way to a blinding, scalding wave of fury.

Cain.

I don't think. I don't hesitate. I pull up his contact and hit call, jamming the phone against my ear while my chest heaves with rage.

He picks up on the second ring, his low voice unbothered. "Hey, doll."

"Reverse it," I demand, my voice shaking so violently I can barely keep it steady. "Reverse that damn payment right now, Cain!"

"No," he replies simply, the cool, flat tone of his refusal driving me up the wall.

"Are you insane?" I yell, throwing the covers off my legs and pacing the floor. "You rejected me last night! You made a huge, righteous speech about not wanting my body for money, and then you turn around and pay the clinic behind my back anyway? You're just trying to make me indebted to you!"

"You owe me nothing, Alexis," Cain says. "I didn't pay her bills because I expect you to get into my bed. I told you last night—when you come to me, it won't be out of desperation."

"Then why?" I cry out, stopping dead in the middle of my bedroom. "Why would you drop thousands of dollars on a woman you barely know? Why are you doing this?"

"Because it was an issue," Cain says smoothly, as if explaining something simple to a child. "It was distracting you, and it was putting your family at risk. I wanted the problem gone, so I removed it."

I grip the phone so hard my knuckles turn white. "I am going to repay every single cent of that money, Cain. Every dollar. Do you hear me?"

"Have a good day at work, Alexis," he rumbles softly.

I slam my thumb down on the red button, cutting the call off, and hurl my phone onto the bed. I stand there in the quiet room, my pulse roaring in my ears.

Slowly, the silence of the bedroom begins to regulate my scattered feelings and emotions. The hot, blinding anger that consumed me just moments ago gradually melts away, leaving behind a wave of pure, overwhelming relief. My knees suddenly feel like lead. I crumble back onto the edge of the mattress, my head dropping into my hands.

Tears flood my eyes—not of frustration or humiliation this time, but of absolute relief. They spill down my cheeks, hot and unrestrained. A tiny, quiet part of me is profoundly grateful that Cain isn't here to witness this breakdown; he would probably think I’ve completely lost my mind after screaming at him just seconds ago.

Yes, I’m going to repay every single cent he spent. I refuse to be a charity case or let him hold this over my head. But the crushing urgency is finally gone. Milly's care is safe. Her therapy won't be paused. And for the first time in months, I don't have to make the agonizing choice between paying for her life-saving prescriptions or keeping a roof over our heads for rent.

I'm free to breathe.

A sudden, quiet realization hits me in the middle of wiping my cheeks—I didn't actually say thank you. My fingers itch to pick up the phone from the covers and dial his number back, but I quickly shake my head, banishing the thought. I am not giving him the satisfaction of hearing me soften up.

I take a deep, steadying breath, pull a plush robe over my shoulders, and tie the belt tightly around my waist. Pushing open my bedroom door, I head down the short hallway to Milly's room to check on her, eager to see her bright face and help her take her morning drugs without a dark cloud hanging over us.

The glittering ballroom of the Grand Regent Hotel is bathed in warm ambient lighting, filled with the soft clinking of crystal glasses and the faint hum of a string quartet.

Velvet-draped tables and cascading floral arrangements divide the massive floor, where the city’s elite gather in bespoke tuxedos, silk gowns, and diamond jewelry that catches the light with every subtle movement.

I weave through the dense crowd, balancing a heavy silver tray laden with champagne flutes and delicate hors d'oeuvres. Dressed in The Blackwood’s uniform— black tailored trousers, a crisp white button-down, and a fitted vest—I keep my posture straight and my face a mask of quiet professionalism.

"Champagne, sir?" I ask politely, stepping up to a cluster of businessmen discussing offshore investments.

One of them slides a glass off my tray without even glancing up at me, continuing his conversation as if I were a ghost holding a platter. I simply nod, stepping back smoothly to scan the room for the next empty glass.

The Blackwood was hired to run full catering, bar, and floor service for tonight’s private business gala, which means almost our entire front-of-house staff is on duty. Behind the glowing marble bar at the far end of the ballroom, two of my coworkers are furiously mixing high-end cocktails, while the rest of the serving crew glides across the polished floors, attending to every whim of the wealthy guests.

For the first time in months, the weight in my chest isn't there while I work. Knowing Milly is at home, comfortable and fully stocked on her new prescriptions, makes the long hours and aching feet completely tolerable.