Chapter 3 - THE TRUTH IN THE CLINICVincent sat quietly while the SUV navigated through the wet city streets, his eyes evaluating every bruise on my skin.
"What is your name?" Vincent asked gently.
"Maya," I whispered, my voice trembling violently from shock and hypothermia.
"Is there family waiting for you, Maya? Anyone who will be looking for you tonight?"
"No," I answered, the harsh reality of my loneliness cutting deeper than Ricky's boots. My parents were gone, and I had spent three years surviving alone in a city that didn't care whether I lived or died. "No one."
I looked up at Vincent, tears streaming down my bruised cheeks. "I really took the forty dollars... I was going to pay it back. I swear."
Vincent offered a faint, sad smile. "Damian rarely bases his judgments on what men like Ricky say."
They brought me to a discreet limestone townhouse in the Upper East Side. Hidden behind its classic facade was a state-of-the-art medical clinic, where Dr. Bell—a sharp, efficient woman in a white coat—examined my injuries without a single word of judgment.
Two cracked ribs. A dislocated left ring finger. Severe contusions across my torso and face.
May you like
Dr. Bell set my finger, wrapped my ribs tightly with medical gauze, and provided me with painkillers and clean, soft cotton clothes. Two hours later, Vincent tapped on the door.
"Damian is ready," Vincent said simply. "He wants the truth."
