Chapter 3: The Price of Survival
Laura POV
My hands won't stop shaking.
I stare at them like they belong to someone else. These hands signed seventeen marriage certificates. These hands wore seventeen different rings. These hands that my father used to hold when I was little, when he'd tell me stories about real love and forever.
"Love isn't something you buy. It's something you build, brick by brick, day by day."
Dad's voice echoes in my apartment, mixing with the smell of vanilla candles and the designer perfumes lined up on my dresser like soldiers. Each bottle represents a different version of me. Sweet and innocent. Mysterious and elegant. Whatever they needed me to be.
I walk to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. The mirror shows me what Andy Hayes will see in twenty minutes: dark hair that cost three hundred dollars to cut, makeup that hides the circles under my eyes, skin that's never seen a day of real work.
I look like a success. Like the kind of woman who belongs in penthouses and charity galas.
But I feel like a fraud.
The phone rings, and my stomach drops before I even look at the screen. Mom's picture flashes up – a selfie from last Christmas where she's trying to look younger than her forty-eight years. Heavy makeup, bright smile, the kind of desperation that expensive clothes can't hide.
I let it ring three times before answering. Maybe if I wait long enough, she'll hang up and find someone else to save her.
"Laura, baby, thank God you picked up." Her voice is breathless, scared. In the background, I can hear male voices arguing, the sound of something breaking.
"Mom, what's wrong?" But I already know. It's always the same thing.
"It's Vincent. His business deal went bad, and these men... came to the apartment. "They're saying he owes them money, lots of money, and..."
"How much?" I interrupted. There's no point in hearing the whole story. It always ends the same way.
"Fifty thousand." Her voice cracks. "Laura, I'm scared. They said if Vincent doesn't pay by Friday, they'll....."
"They'll what, Mom?"
Silence. Then, quieter: "They'll hurt him. And maybe me too."
I close my eyes and count to ten. Then twenty. It doesn't help.
Vincent Torres. The latest in Mom's long line of dangerous men. Drug dealers, gamblers, guys who think violence is a business strategy. She finds them like a magnet finds metal, drawn to the chaos that reminds her she's still alive.
"Where is Vincent now?"
"He... he left. He said he needed to figure things out. Which meant he ran, leaving Mom to face his mess alone. Just like they always do.
My reflection stares back at me from the bathroom mirror. Dark eyes that look too much like Dad's, full of disappointment I can't hide anymore.
"Laura? Are you still there?"
"I'm here." My voice sounds hollow, even to me. "Mom, you know I just got out of a contract, right? I don't have fifty thousand dollars sitting around."
"But you could get it, couldn't you? You're so good at what you do, and those rich men always"
"Stop." The word comes out harsher than I meant. "Just stop."
She goes quiet. In the background, I can hear the TV playing some daytime talk show about people who've ruined their lives for love.
"I'm not an ATM, Mom. I'm your daughter."
"I know that, baby. I know. But I don't have anyone else to call. My family wrote me off years ago. My friends... well, Vincent didn't like them, so..."
Of course, he didn't. Men like Vincent don't like their women having support systems. Makes it harder to control them.
I walk to my kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. My hands are still shaking, but at least now I have something to hold.
"This is the last time," I told her. "Do you understand me? After that, you're on your own."
"Oh, Laura, thank you. Thank you so much. I knew you'd"
"I'm not finished." My voice gets harder. "This is the last time I bail you out. The last time I pay for Vincent's mistakes or Carlos's debts or whoever comes after them. After that, we're done."
The silence stretches so long I think she's hung up.
"Laura," she whispers finally, "you don't mean that."
But I do. I'm tired of being her safety net. Tired of watching her choose dangerous men over her own daughter, over and over again, like some sick addiction, she can't quit.
"I'll transfer the money tonight," I say. Use it to get away from Vincent, not to pay his debts. Get a bus ticket to somewhere safe and start over."
"I can't just leave him. I love him."
Love. She says it like it's supposed to mean something, like it's supposed to excuse everything. But love doesn't leave bruises. Love doesn't empty your bank account or bring dangerous men to your door.
Dad knew what love was. Real love. The kind that builds you up instead of tearing you down.
"No, Mom. You're addicted to him. There's a difference."
She starts crying then, soft sobs that make my chest ache despite everything. I remember being seven years old, watching her cry over my father's hospital bed, promising she'd be stronger for both of us.
That promise lasted exactly three months.
"I have to go," I told her. "I'm transferring the money now. "Use it wisely."
"Laura, wait"
I hung up and immediately opened my banking app. Fifty thousand dollars. Half of what I made from Gerald, gone just like that. But if it keeps Mom alive, if it gets her away from Vincent and his world of broken bones and empty threats, maybe it's worth it.
My finger hovers over the transfer button.
"Find someone who stays. Promise me."
Dad's last words hit me like a slap. I can smell his hospital room again antiseptic and flowers and the fear that comes when someone you love is dying.
He held my hand with his rough mechanic's fingers, the same hands that fixed engines and braided my hair and never once hit anyone in anger. The same hands that shook when Mom left for the first time, when I was twelve, and she decided Puerto Rico was too small for her dreams.
"I promise, Dad," I told him. But even then, I was lying.
How do you find someone who stays when everyone in your life has taught you that people leave? When your own mother chooses dangerous men over her daughter, over and over again?
When did you turn marriage into a business transaction?
I transfer the money and watch my savings account balance drop. Three years of work, three years of selling pieces of my soul, and half of it disappears with one click.
But that's what family does, right? They take and take until there's nothing left.
Andy's email glows on my laptop screen like a beacon. Five hundred thousand dollars. More money than I've ever seen in one place, enough to disappear forever if I want to.
Enough to finally say no to Mom's next crisis.
I read it again, looking for hidden traps or red flags. Hayes Industries – I know that name. Old Chicago money, the kind of family that owns senators and judges. What could someone like that possibly want with someone like me?
But I already know the answer. Rich men always want the same thing: someone beautiful and disposable, someone who won't ask too many questions or make too many demands.
Someone who knows how to disappear when the contract ends.
My phone buzzes. A text from Mom: Money received. Thank you, baby. I love you.
Love. That word again, thrown around like confetti at someone else's wedding.
I deleted the message without responding.
The knock on my door came exactly twenty minutes after we hung up. Three sharp raps, confident but not aggressive. I check the peephole and see a man in an expensive suit, dark hair, and a sharp jawline that probably breaks hearts on a regular basis.
Andrew Hayes. In person, he's taller than I expected, broader through the shoulders. The kind of man who fills up a room just by walking into it.
I take a deep breath and open the door.
"Ms. Castillo." His voice is different in person deeper, with an edge that wasn't there on the phone. His eyes are dark brown, almost black, and they study my face like he's trying to solve a puzzle.
"Mr. Hayes." I step back to let him in, suddenly aware of how small my apartment feels with him here. "Thank you for coming."
He doesn't answer right away. Just look around, taking in the wedding photos on my walls, the designer perfumes on my dresser, the expensive furniture that doesn't quite hide the fact that this place is still just a fancy prison.
"Seventeen marriages," he says finally. It's not a question.
"Seventeen contracts," I correct. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
The question hangs between us like a challenge. He moves closer, and I catch his scent expensive cologne mixed with something darker, more dangerous.
Something that makes my pulse quicken despite every warning bell in my head.
"That depends," I say, "on what you're really asking me to do."
His smile is sharp as broken glass. "I'm asking you to save my life, Ms. Castillo. The question is, "are you willing to risk yourself to do it?"
The apartment suddenly feels too small, too warm. Outside, Chicago hums with its midnight energy, but here, it's just the two of us and a question that could change everything.
I look at his face, really look at it and see something I recognize. The same careful distance I wear like armor. The same walls built from broken promises and shattered trust.
Maybe we're more alike than either of us wants to admit.
"Tell me what you need," I hear myself say.
His eyes flash with something that might be relief. Or hunger.
"Everything," he says simply. "I need everything."