The fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway buzzed like dying insects, casting a sickly glow over my father’s motionless body. Tubes snaked from his arms, his face swollen from the beating he took just for asking for his pay. I clenched the crumpled invoice in my fist—proof of work done, money denied.

I had come to the city with nothing but that paper and a prayer. Now, both felt useless.

That night, drunk on grief and rage, I stormed into the CEO’s charity gala. I meant to confront Vincent, the man whose name was stamped on every contract. Instead, I found myself in his penthouse, trembling not from fear—but from the first touch of someone who saw me, really saw me, in years.

It was supposed to be one night. Just heat, no promises. But now the nurse won’t meet my eyes, and the doctor says I’m eight weeks along.

And they’re kicking me out tomorrow unless I pay 15,000 yuan.