Page 28 of Billionaire’s Cruelty

I followed her gaze—and there it was. A shadow at the far end of the dim corridor. Small. Pale. Dressed in white. And moving.

My stomach twisted.

“Fuck,” Wendy hissed, her body tensing beside me.

The figured shifted, inching closer.

“It’s coming towards us. Close the door—close it!”

My hands refused to move. My brain screamed at them, but my fingers stayed frozen, useless.

“It’s a child…” The words slipped out before I could stop them. “What is a kid doing here?”

Wendy had taken over, jabbing the ‘close’ button like her life depended on it.

“It’s coming toward us.” Her voice trembled, raw with panic.

“Maybe it needs help.” I slapped her hand away from the panel—ignoring the sting in my palm—and stepped forward, ready to exit.

Before I could move, Wendy yanked me back just as the door groaned shut.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Her breath came fast, harsh against the stale air.

“How can you be so selfish? That boy—or girl—might need help. Have you even looked around?” My chest burned with frustration. I didn’t specialize in fertility medicine by accident—I loved kids. I wanted one of my own someday. The thought of a child left alone in a place like this… it tore at something deep inside me.

“Yes, I’ve seen it. Thank you very much.” Wendy’s stone sharpened to a blade. She gestured at the cracked walls, the peeling paint, the graffiti scrawled in angry, jagged strokes. “Have you seen this place? This place is a goddamn nightmare. It could be a trap—you know that, right? Have you seriously never watched a horror movie?”

“This isn’t a horror movie.”

“Well, it might as well be.”

Before I could fire back, a mechanical ding cut through the argument—the elevator arriving at 17. The doors rumbled open, revealing a long corridor swallowed by shadows.

“Now what?”

“This is as far as it goes.”

“Please don’t tell me we have to walk in there,” she muttered, her usual sarcasm falling flat against the weight of the moment.

I shook my head. “No.” My fingers hovered over the worn buttons. “Now I put in the password.”

I pressed 2—waited precisely two seconds—then 7. Another pause. Finally, 15.

“Is this it?”

“This is it,” I whispered.

Nothing happened.

“Are you sure?” Wendy asked.

I nodded, swallowing the rising lump in my throat. “I’m sure.”

I punched the buttons again—2, 7, 15—with the same precision. Nothing.

“What are we going to do now?”

“I don’t know.” My voice broke on the last word as I wiped the tears that spilled without warning, hot and unwelcome. I cupped my hands over my mouth, trying to steady my breathing.