The Price of His Bitter Regret

CAROLINE POV:

His words, "I don't care if you die," hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. But I didn't fall. I couldn't. Not when that money was still on the table.

He let go of my arm, his hand still trembling slightly. He watched me, his expression unreadable.

"You've truly sunken to the lowest point," Camille cooed, her arm now wrapped around Declan's. Her eyes, bright with satisfaction, raked over me. "Imagine, Declan, your own sister, begging for scraps."

My gaze remained fixed on the money. It was everything. It was my last chance.

"Are you going to give me the money or not?" I asked, my voice devoid of emotion.

Declan flinched, as if truly seeing me for the first time in years. His eyes narrowed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, tossing it onto the table with a flick of his wrist. It landed with a soft thud, a cold, hard payment for my humiliation.

"Happy now?" he sneered.

"Almost," I replied, gathering the bills, my fingers brushing against the cold, crisp paper. "Just need the rest for the urn's final installment." My voice was just above a whisper, but it seemed to echo in the sudden quiet of the club.

A single, bitter laugh escaped my lips. This was my life now. My future. My ending.

The room seemed to shrink around me. The faces blurred. All I saw was Declan' s stunned expression, then the slow dawning of confusion.

"Urn?" he scoffed, recovering quickly. "What kind of game are you playing now, Caroline?"

He didn't know. He truly didn't know. I found a strange, dark amusement in it.

"No game," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "Just ensuring my final resting place is paid for. Can't exactly rely on family, can I?"

Camille let out a false gasp. "Declan, she's trying to manipulate you! Don't fall for her tricks. She's always been so dramatic."

Declan' s gaze hardened. "Don't bother, Caroline. I'm not buying it."

I shrugged, the movement a strain on my aching muscles. "Believe what you want."

I tucked the money into my pocket, the crinkle of the bills a small comfort. It still wasn't enough. Not quite.

"I need to go," I said, turning to leave. The club manager, Mr. Henderson, was watching from a distance, his face a mix of pity and fear.

"Wait," Declan called out, his voice sharp. "You're fired."

My steps faltered. I turned back slowly. "Fired?"

"Yes, fired," he spat. "You think you can embarrass me, embarrass the Carpenter name, and still keep your job? You're out."

My heart hammered against my ribs. Out. Again.

"And don't even think about finding another job in this city," he added, his voice low and menacing. "Every door will be closed to you. Consider this another lesson."

My nails dug into my palms. Another lesson. Five years of lessons hadn't been enough?

I wanted to scream, to lash out, but the words died in my throat. What was the point? He wouldn't listen. He never did.

I just nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. "Understood."

I left the club, the cold night air a shock to my face. It was better this way. No more public humiliations, at least not here. My body felt heavy, each step a monumental effort. My stomach churned, and I knew what was coming.

I stumbled into the nearest alley, the stench of stale garbage filling my nostrils. I leaned against a damp brick wall, heaving until my throat burned and my stomach was empty. It was a familiar ritual now, the brutal rejection of whatever meager food I managed to eat.

My body was failing me, slowly but surely. The doctor's words echoed in my head: "Terminal."

Back in my tiny, rented room, the silence was deafening. I stared at the phone. Another missed call from the urn shop. The manager, Mr. Grier, was getting impatient. The final payment was overdue.

I needed that money. Not for life, but for death. For a sliver of peace, a quiet corner in the earth, bought with my own blood and tears.

The phone rang again. Mr. Grier. I braced myself.

"Ms. Daniels," his voice, usually jovial, was tight with annoyance. "Are you going to make this payment or not? I have other clients, you know. That urn is popular."

"I... I lost my job," I whispered, the words catching in my dry throat. "I'll get it. Just a few more days."

He scoffed. "A few more days? You said that last week! Look, I'm not a charity. If you can't pay, I'll have to sell it to someone else."

My heart lurched. "No! Please. It's... it's important to me."

"Important enough to pay for, then," he retorted. "I'll give you until tomorrow morning. That's it. Otherwise, it's gone." He hung up before I could argue further.

The line went dead. My last hope, dwindling.

A text notification popped up on my old, cracked phone. It was from the club manager, Mr. Henderson. "Your employment has been terminated, effective immediately. Your last paycheck will be held for damages incurred during your final shift."

Damages. Of course. Declan's final, cruel twist of the knife. He wasn't just firing me; he was making sure I had absolutely nothing. Not even the paltry sum I had earned.

My vision blurred. He really doesn't care if I die. The words echoed, a chilling prophecy.