Fifteen.
That was how old I was when the world decided to chew me up and spit me out.
I didn't have a warning. One minute, I was arguing with my mother about piano lessons and the cost of a recital dress. The next, a state trooper was standing in the doorway, twisting his hat in his hands, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on the planet.
Car crash. Instant. No pain, he said.
Liar.
There was pain. It just wasn't theirs. It was mine.
I was left with nothing. The bank took the house. The state took the car. I was a stray dog waiting for the pound, until Liam O'Connor stepped in front of the social worker. He was just a kid himself, barely older than me, but he had that reckless, golden-boy grin that made you believe everything would be okay. He took me home. He made his grandmother, Nana Rose, and his mother make room for me. They fed me. They clothed me. They let me cry until my throat bled.
Liam saved my life.
And now, I was standing in a sterile, white hallway, watching his drain away.
"Miss Vance?"
I snapped my head up. The doctor was tall, tired, and looking at me with eyes that had seen too much death for a Tuesday morning. Dr. Evans. He held a clipboard like a shield.
"Tell me," I demanded. My voice was raspy. I hadn't had water in six hours.
"It's not good, Rain," Dr. Evans said. He didn't sugarcoat it. I liked that about him. "The swelling in the brain is critical. We have him stabilized for the moment, but the trauma to the skull is severe. Extremely severe."
"Surgery?" I asked. "You said surgery was an option."
"It is. But it's a high-risk craniotomy. We need to go in and relieve the pressure, or he's going to be brain dead before sunrise."
"Do it," I said instantly. "Just do it. Why are you standing here talking to me?"
Dr. Evans sighed, glancing at the nurse beside him. The nurse wouldn't look at me. That was never a good sign.
"This kind of trauma... it's considered elective in terms of insurance categorization because of the nature of the incident. The police report cites gang violence. His coverage is suspended pending investigation."
My hands curled into fists at my sides. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying the hospital administration needs a deposit. A significant one. Or they won't authorize the OR."
"He's dying!" I screamed. The sound bounced off the tiled walls, making a passing orderly jump. "You're telling me you're going to let him die because of paperwork?"
"I'm telling you that my hands are tied," Dr. Evans said, his voice dropping, trying to calm me down. "I can keep him on the ventilator. I can keep his heart beating. But the brain function... Rain, time is the enemy here. Every hour we wait, he loses more. If we don't operate within twelve hours, there won't be a Liam left to save."
"How much?"
"Two hundred thousand. For the deposit."
The air left my lungs. It felt like someone had swung a bat into my stomach. Two hundred thousand dollars. I had forty dollars in my purse and a maxed-out credit card. I was a waitress and a piano tutor. I didn't have two hundred thousand dollars. I didn't know anyone who had that kind of money.
"I need time," I whispered.
"You don't have time," Dr. Evans said grimly. "You have until tonight. Make some calls."
He turned and walked away, his white coat flapping like a surrender flag.
I staggered back, hitting the hard plastic of the waiting room chairs. I sank down, burying my face in my hands.
"Rain."
A hand touched my shoulder. Tara. My best friend. She smelled like cheap coffee and anxiety. She had been here since the ambulance brought us in, her mascara running down her cheeks.
"Did you hear him?" I mumbled into my palms. "Two hundred grand, Tara. I could sell my kidneys and not make half of that."
Tara sat next to me, gripping my arm. "We have to think. There has to be a way."
"There is no way. He's going to die. Liam is going to die, and it's going to be my fault because I'm broke."
"Stop it," Tara snapped, shaking me. "Don't you dare go down that hole. We fix this. We find the money."
"Where? The bank? With my credit score? A loan shark? Who gives that kind of cash to an eighteen-year-old?"
Tara bit her lip, looking around the empty waiting room to make sure we were alone. She pulled her phone out, tapping furiously on the screen.
"I heard something at the law firm the other day," she said, her voice lowered. "About private equity. High-risk lenders."
"I don't care about equity, Tara."
"Just listen," she hissed. "There's a guy. My boss represents a client who used him. He's loaded, Rain. Stinkingly rich. He owns half the shipping yards, the tech startups, the real estate downtown. They say he gives out loans when the banks say no."
I lifted my head, wiping my eyes. "Who?"
"Damien Kael."
The name hit me like a physical slap.
My blood ran cold, then hot, boiling with a rage so sudden and violent I nearly choked on it.
Damien Kael.
"No," I said. My voice was low, deadly.
"Rain, listen," Tara pressed, showing me a picture on her phone. It was a paparazzi shot of a man in a charcoal suit getting out of an Aston Martin. Dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes like ice. "They say he's ruthless, but he has the money. If you beg him, if you offer a payment plan—"
"I said no!" I smacked the phone out of her hand. It clattered across the linoleum floor.
Tara stared at me, eyes wide. "What the hell? I'm trying to help you! Liam is going to die!"
"I know he's going to die!" I stood up, breathing hard. "But not him. Never him. Do not mention that name to me again, Tara. Do you hear me? Never."
"Why?" Tara stood up too, challenging me. "Because he's scary? Because he's a criminal? Rain, look at where we are! We don't have the luxury of morals right now!"
"It's not about morals!" I yelled, getting right in her face. "It's about... just drop it. Drop it, or I walk out of here and I don't come back."
"You're being an idiot," Tara spat, bending down to grab her phone. "A stubborn idiot."
"Maybe," I said, grabbing my purse. "I need fresh air. I need to go to the house and get Liam's insurance papers, maybe Dr. Evans missed something. Just... stay here. Watch him."
"Rain—"
I turned my back on her and sprinted for the exit doors. I couldn't look at her. If I looked at her, I'd tell her. And if I told her, she'd get herself killed too.
I drove Liam's beat-up Honda back to the house, my hands shaking on the wheel so bad I could barely keep the car in the lane. The city blurred past me in streaks of neon and gray.
Damien Kael.
Tara thought he was a savior. She thought he was just a rich suit with a checkbook.
I pulled into the driveway of the small, run-down house Liam shared with his grandmother. It was dark. Nana Rose was staying at her sister's for the week. Thank God. She didn't know yet. She didn't know her golden boy was lying on a slab with his skull cracked open.
I unlocked the front door and stepped into the hallway.
The smell hit me first.
Copper and bleach. I had tried to clean it up before the ambulance came, but you can't scrub a smell like that away. Not really. It sticks to the drywall. It soaks into the wood.
I walked to the living room, my legs feeling heavy, like I was wading through cement.
I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't need to. The image was burned into my retinas. I closed my eyes, and I was back there. Three hours ago.
I had walked in, holding a bag of groceries. Eggs. Milk. Bread.
The TV was smashed. The coffee table was splintered.
And Liam.
He was on the floor, curled in a fetal position.
I dropped the eggs. They cracked, yellow yolks running over my sneakers.
"Liam?"
He didn't move. I ran to him, sliding on the rug. I turned him over.
I screamed. I must have screamed, though I don't remember hearing it. I just remember the sound of my own heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
His face was gone, disfigured. It was just a mask of red pulp. His jaw was hanging at a sickening angle, unhinged, broken in three places. His teeth... half of them were on the carpet, scattered like white chiclets.
Someone hadn't just beaten him. They had dismantled him.
I was crying, trying to wipe the blood from his eyes so I could see if he was looking at me, when his phone buzzed. It was lying in a pool of his own blood next to his hand.
The screen lit up. A single text message.
Sender: Unknown.
I shouldn't have looked. I should have called 911 immediately. But my hand moved on its own.
I picked up the sticky, slick phone.
The message read:
"Tell him he has 24 hours to return what he stole. If he doesn't, prepare a wheelchair. Next time, I won't just break his jaw. I'll feed him his own bones. Consider this the invoice. — D.K."
D.K.
Damien Kael.
I opened my eyes in the dark living room. My breathing was ragged, harsh in the silence.
The monster didn't just want money. He wanted suffering. He had walked into this house, or sent his dogs, and destroyed the only person who had ever given a damn about me. He had looked at Liam, the boy who saved me when I was fifteen, and crushed him like an insect.
Tara wanted me to ask him for a loan?
I laughed. It was a wet, hysterical sound in the darkness.
Ask the devil for a glass of water while you're burning in hell.
I walked over to the spot on the rug where the stain was still damp. I stared at it.
"I hate you," I whispered to the empty room, wishing the words could travel across the city, through the steel and glass of his penthouse, and pierce his black heart. "I hate you, Damien Kael."."
I wished nothing but the worst on him. I wished for him to hurt the way I was hurting. I wished for him to bleed. I wished for him to die screaming.
But wishes didn't pay surgeons.
And as the moonlight hit the bloodstain on the floor, I realized with a sickening clarity that hatred wasn't going to save Liam.
Only the monster could do that.