Sylvie Weaver had no idea this client was the father of that crazy suitor of hers.

Tyree Frenette stepped out of the bathroom, towel-drying his hair, wearing only flannel pajama pants.

Sylvie bit her lip, her eyes trailing along the lines of his Adonis belt, then pausing at the bulge beneath the fabric. "He's got that rugged, outdoorsy vibe. So hot. Probably the most masculine guy I've ever met," she thought.

She was wet and aching with need.

"Can't get enough, huh?" he said, looking at her, his face serious.

Sylvie pulled the blanket tighter in fear. He was big—way bigger than those rugby guys from uni.

She hadn't seen theirs up close, but she could tell just by how his filled out his pants.

"How old are you, really?" His voice hardened, edged with frustration.

To get a better price for the night, Sylvie lied.

"Alright, 25," she said, biting her lip and glancing away.

His eyes narrowed. "Don't waste my time."

Nervous, she lowered her voice, "22."

"What is this, a countdown?" he sneered.

"Fine, 20. You happy now?" she snapped, her face flushing.

He gave her a cool once-over. "Kids these days are insane."

Then he shifted slightly, like he was about to leave. Panicked, Sylvie blurted out, "Hey, you haven't paid me yet!"

"What's the going rate?" He looked down at her.

Sylvie hesitated, pressing her lips together.

She didn't know what to say, and even without experience, she could hear the judgment in his voice.

Tyree didn't push further. Instead, he pulled out his phone, found a digital business card, and showed it to her.

"Here. My info. Send me your bank details, I'll transfer it."

Sylvie's eyes lit up. She fumbled for her phone.

"At... at least 1,600 dollars," she mumbled hesitantly.

Then she quickly got dressed, avoiding his gaze. Memorizing the number on the door, she slipped out with a slight limp.

Tyree laughed, watching her go.

"So timid. Where did she even get the guts to sell herself?" he muttered.

She had gotten the number wrong.

The first time she ever called Tyree, she said, "Is this the surrogate agency? I wanna sell my eggs."

At first, Tyree thought it was just a wrong number and hung up with a frown.

But the calls kept coming, and he kept rejecting them.

Finally, his patience wore thin, and he answered, only to hear Sylvie's soft voice on the other end.

"Sir, I swear I mean this. I'm thirty, healthy, athletic. My eggs are top quality. Please, just think about it."

Tyree paused, his frown deepening.

He couldn't believe a college girl fell for something like this.

"You do realize that's illegal, right?" he replied in a clipped voice.

A silence followed. Sylvie hadn't expected such a blunt response.

The only thing he could hear was her quiet breathing, like she was trying to figure out what to say.

Before she could, Tyree hung up.

He walked out of the surgery room, pulled off his scrubs, and tossed them in the trash.

His head throbbed. Back-to-back appendectomies had drained him.

With the staff shortage, he had spent the whole day handling procedures that weren't even his. He was supposed to handle the complicated cases.

As he walked past other departments, Conrad Marcotte caught up and threw an arm over his shoulder.

"Whoa! Finally caught you before you disappeared. Come grab a drink after work."

Tyree shot him a look and said flatly, "You look like hell, with those bags under your eyes. One drink and you might drop dead."

"Don't even get me started." Conrad groaned as they walked. "Kids these days are insane. Just treated a college girl who sold her eggs. Now she's dealing with ovarian failure, maybe permanent infertility. She was crying her eyes out in the ward. Really gave me a headache."

Tyree slowed down. That voice from the call came back to him—soft, a little shy, but serious.

"She doesn't sound 30. Maybe she saw some questionable ads and might fall for it," he thought, his face tightening.

Jingling his car keys, Tyree stepped into the elevator.

He wasn't a saint, and it wasn't his problem. Some people made choices even doctors couldn't stop.

In the underground parking lot, Tyree got into his car and started the engine.

Conrad knocked on the car window. "You coming for a drink or what?"

"No."

With that, Tyree hit the gas, and his Land Rover sped off.

***

At 10 p.m., the same number called again.

Tyree was in the shower, his phone buzzing on the sink. Without checking the screen, he swiped to answer.

"Sir, please! I need this. I won't call the police if anything happens, I swear. Just give me a chance."

Sylvie's voice cracked, urgent and desperate.

He had heard it plenty of times outside ICU doors—the helplessness of someone who couldn't afford their family's medical bills.

Tyree stuck his head out of the glass shower door and glanced at his phone.

"Her again? He frowned. Did some idiot mess up and put my number in a scam ad, or did she just punch in the wrong digits?" he wondered.

Either way, she wasn't looking for him.

And he didn't want to get involved.

Just as he was about to hang up and block the number, Conrad's words came back to him.

"Kids these days are insane... She's dealing with ovarian failure, maybe permanent infertility"

Tyree then changed his mind and asked bluntly, "Are you a virgin?"

"W-What?" Sylvie said, startled.

"You said you were untouched. If that's true, we can talk. If not, don't waste my time."

He expected her to chicken out.

Thirty seconds passed. Her face was burning.

Then barely above a whisper, she said, "Yes."

Tyree froze.

Water kept running over his body, cooling his skin, but it couldn't put out the fire growing inside him.

He took a deep breath and said calmly, "Come to my place then."

"Why your place?" Sylvie's voice trembled a little. She was nervous but trying to play it cool.

"Where are you?" Tyree asked casually.

She hesitated before finally giving him her location.

"You're a designer?"

"Yeah." Sylvie buried her face in her arms, her cheeks burning.

She didn't feel like she deserved the title.

Tyree turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and dried his sculpted hands. Then he walked out of the bathroom, his phone still in hand.

Bringing someone home wasn't something he did.

But it was late, and he wasn't in the mood to go out.

He wondered if this reckless girl would actually show up.

If she did, she deserved a good scare.

Tyree kept it short. "Octavia Heights, Building 6, Apartment 1009. Come now."

Sylvie felt her whole face flush, and even her neck and ears burned.

She checked the time. Her dorm would lock up in 30 minutes.

As she hesitated, her mother's voice rang in her head.

"We fed you, scraped together money for tuition, sent you off to college, and now you can't even send money home? Always saying you're broke. Remember Thelma from next door? She barely finished middle school, but she works hard and sends home 1,600 dollars every month. What good are you?"

Sylvie bit her lip.

After a few seconds of silence, Tyree sneered, "If you don't have the guts, stop pretending you're after real money. Go to sleep, designer."

Her fingers tightened around the phone. "I'm coming."

She was sitting alone in the dim hallway outside her dorm room. It was silent and empty.

She took a deep breath and said firmly, "I'm coming. Wait for me."

***

Arkney University wasn't far from his place—four stops by bus, two by train.

Sylvie followed the directions and caught the last subway of the night. The car was nearly empty, and the only sounds came from the station announcements.

Minutes later, she arrived.

Outside the apartment complex, Sylvie took a moment to find Building 6. It was upscale, and the elevator needed a key card.

She sat in the lobby's waiting area, pulled out her phone, and called Tyree.

"I... I'm here. In the lobby. The elevator needs a pass."

Tyree hadn't expected her to show up.

He held the phone for a second.

"Alright. Wait there," he said before he knew it.

He hung up, threw on some loungewear, and headed downstairs.

The lobby had a lounge with plush chairs and small tables. A few people were sitting around.

Tyree scanned the space and spotted her in the corner—a white T-shirt, loose jeans, and black canvas sneakers. Everything about her was plain, and she sat stiffly, looking pure and gullible.

He stepped closer.

Sylvie had been sitting long enough to take in the grand buildings around.

She straightened her back, trying to mask her unease.

Then, a voice came from above her, "6529?"

She looked up and saw Tyree. He had that kind of face—mature and good-looking.

He stood tall over her like he owned the place, one hand in his pocket. He smelled clean, like shower gel mixed with something fresh that only guys wore.

Sylvie froze. He spoke again, his tone crisp, detached.

"Your phone number, 6529, designer."

Sylvie flushed right away.

Her mind went blank, and she was stunned to react.

The voice on the phone had been clipped and impatient, but the man himself looked nothing like she had imagined. He was clean-cut and striking.

But he gave off an aloof vibe, keeping her at arm's length. There was a calm in his cold eyes like he didn't care.

His short hair was still damp, so she guessed he had just finished showering.

Sylvie nodded, her cheeks still burning. "That's me."

"Follow me," Tyree said.

He turned toward the elevator, and Sylvie hurried after him, her mind still buzzing.

It was an upscale building, with two apartments per floor. Out of the elevator, Tyree pressed his thumb against the smart lock.

With a beep, the door unlocked.

He pushed it open and said, coolly, "Come in."

Sylvie swallowed before padding inside.

The space stretched before her, just over two hundred square meters. It was uncluttered, with cool gray-white tones. Every detail spoke of wealth but with understated taste.

Sylvie had heard properties here were expensive, meant for elites and top talent. Even the lobby made that clear. This wasn't the kind of place just anyone could afford.

She lingered near the doorway, feeling small and unsure.

Tyree shut the door, pulled open a cabinet, and tossed a pair of disposable slippers her way. She slipped off her shoes, put them on, and followed him into the living room.

He dropped onto the couch, leaning back, one leg crossed over the other—completely at ease.

His eyes moved over her, slow and hungry. Sylvie felt like she was being sized up.

She didn't move or speak.

She just waited, her head lowered.

Finally, Tyree broke the silence.

"Take off your pants."

Sylvie froze, fear creeping up her spine.

"You don't know the rules?" He glanced at her face. "If I don't check, how do I know you're a virgin?"

Sylvie bit her lip as humiliation washed over her.

Her hand trembled on her belt.

Her mind was blank, a deafening buzzing filling her head.

Tyree's gaze stayed on her, sharp and pressing. Then he shifted, settling into a more comfortable position—still watching and waiting.

Her heart pounded, and her face blushed crimson. Blood rushed to her head, and she rubbed her hands together, restless.

Toying with the glass in his hand, Tyree spoke calmly.

"Once the procedure is done, any problems are yours—swelling, nausea, ovarian enlargement, even having trouble breathing. And if things go really wrong, we're talking hepatitis, syphilis, HIV, maybe worse. But you go to Arkney University. You already know that."

Sylvie went pale right away.

Her hands shook harder.

"Take them off. I don't have time to waste," he urged.

He set the glass down with a dull thud, his expression unreadable.

Sylvie's fingers tightened around her belt buckle. She couldn't for a while.

Then she blurted out, "I changed my mind, sorry. I'm leaving."

She turned sharply toward the door, gripping the handle with a shaking hand.

But the door was locked.

Her heart jumped into her throat.

Slowly, Tyree stepped closer. He was right there, towering over her, pinning her against the door with ease.

Then he leaned in, close enough for his presence to press in around her.

"Changed your mind? Too late.

"You think you can sell when it works for you and walk away when it doesn't? That's not how this works."

Sylvie's eyes went wide, panic all over her face as she pressed herself against the door.

"I made a mistake. Please, just let me go. I won't do it again, I swear," she begged.

Tyree stared down at her, taking in her reddened eyes and nose. She looked so pitiful.

"You sure?" he asked coldly.

She nodded like crazy. "Yes. I'm not selling my eggs."

"Never ever?"

Her tears fell and her whole body was shaking. "Never ever. Please, I'm begging you. Just let me go. I'll be forever grateful to you."

Tyree tilted his head, patting her shoulder.

Only then did he realize how thin she was—just skin and bones.

He looked away. "Get out."

Sylvie twisted the handle, sobbing, but it wouldn't budge. Then, from behind her, he placed his hand over hers and turned the handle up. With a quiet click, it unlocked.

The lock worked differently than she expected, but she didn't have time to think about it.

Sylvie just ran, slippers slapping against the floor.

She didn't stop until she saw the elevator. There she fell apart. She pressed her back against the wall, breathing hard.

The hallway was so quiet that she was afraid to cry out loud.

So she clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling her sobs. Her teeth chattered.

The fear was still there.

Shady things like this had always scared her.

Even with everything planned, she had chickened out the moment it got real.

She crouched down, silently crying. Fifteen minutes passed, and the panic faded.

Then, her phone buzzed with a call from her mother.

She picked up, desperate for comfort, only to be met with furious yelling.

"You ungrateful brat. Useless and selfish. Your dad's paralyzed, and I've been the only one providing for this family. If you don't send money, his tests the day after tomorrow are off. He can sit there and rot for all I care. You all can just go to hell."

Her sobbing stopped at those words, and her mind went back to her childhood.

When she was five, her father, Weldon Weaver, took her out for ice cream on his bike. Then came the truck. Then came the truck. He pulled her close, shielded her with his body, and took the full force of the crash. He never walked again.

The driver left them a little money, then disappeared. Sylvie's family went broke.

At eighteen, she got into college, even when everyone said they couldn't afford it. But Weldon made sure she went. He took the blame and the insults and borrowed money in secret from relatives, hoping an education would give her a better future.

Now, after five years of waiting, his surgery was finally scheduled with a good specialist. If she failed him now, he would spend countless more days stuck in that chair.

Sylvie had seen how illness crushed his dignity.

It was cruel, and the memory hit her hard.

She hung up and wiped her tears.

Then, she glanced down at the flimsy disposable slippers on her feet. The soles were thin, and the cold seeped through, biting at her skin.

She shivered, then pushed herself up.

Step by step, she walked back to Tyree's door and knocked.

Soon, the door opened, and he peeked out.

Before he could speak, Sylvie asked bluntly, "I'll sleep with you. Can you pay me?"

Tyree hadn't expected Sylvie to come back.

He looked at her—tear-streaked face, lips bitten raw, eyes puffy and red. Her tears wouldn't stop as she struggled to hold herself together.

He could tell something had shaken her badly.

Leaning against the liquor cabinet, he asked, "You sure?"

Sylvie started unbuttoning her shirt.

His eyes stayed on her, calm and uninterested.

She shut the door behind her, her hands shaking, then stepped over and sat on his lap. Slowly, she slipped off her coat.

The thin fabric slid right off and fell to the floor.

Then she took off her loose jeans.

The denim hit the floor with a clack, leaving her in just her underwear.

She reached behind her back, fingertips grazing the clasp.

With her eyes closed, she undid it without pause.

There was a quiet desperation in the way she moved.

Tyree watched her in silence.

Her skin was fair, almost glowing in the light. She was petite, but her body was perfectly shaped, with a tiny waist.

"I'm cold," she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. "I just want to feel warm."

He kept his arms around her.

His body was solid, every muscle taut against her. She could feel it all.

Her hand slowly slid down, slipping under the waistband of his pants.

Tyree gasped when her fingers found him—warm, hard, already wanting.

Her other hand slid under his pajama top as her grip tightened around him.

He throbbed in her hand, growing thick with desire.

A second later, Sylvie bent down and took him into her mouth.

He tensed and tried to pull back. Her tongue moved in slow circles, from the tip down. He started to ease into it.

He was so thick that her mouth could barely take him.

In one swift move, Tyree pulled her up. His hand held the back of her head as he caught her lip between his teeth, deepening the kiss.

He tossed her onto the bed. His hands were rough with need, grabbing her breasts like he couldn't get enough of her.

His mouth stayed on hers as his hand slid down, tearing her panties off.

He spread her legs, his fingers finding the wet heat between them.

"Oh God," she gasped, her hips tilting up, chasing his touch.

His fingers played at her pussy—in then out—until she couldn't think.

The feeling was almost too much.

"I want you," she breathed.

Tyree pressed his tip to her, staring into her eyes, then thrust in, hard and deep.

Sylvie cried out, eyes wide, lips parted, her body stretching to take all of him in.