Inside the briefcase lay rows of neat, sterilized medical equipment: surgical scalpels, several empty glass vials, a heavy-duty sedative, and a thick stack of printed documents. At the very top of the papers was a clear plastic sleeve containing a detailed medical dossier.
Meera’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes locked onto the photograph attached to the front profile. It was her own face. Next to it, printed in bold red ink, were the words: MATCH CONFIRMED. BLOOD TYPE: O-NEGATIVE. ORGAN HARVEST COMPATIBLE.
The warm, comforting air of the luxury hotel room instantly turned to ice. The man who had spent twelve months playing the role of a gentle, patient mentor was gone. In his place stood someone cold, precise, and entirely devoid of empathy.
“Ajay…” Meera’s voice vibrated with a terror so deep she could barely articulate his name. She tried to push herself back into the chair, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the armrests. “What… what is this? Why do you have my medical records?”
Ajay didn’t look up immediately. He carefully drew a pair of latex gloves from the side pocket of the bag, snapping them onto his wrists with a sharp, echoing pop.
“I told you, Meera,” he said, his voice retaining that same calm, low cadence she had once found so soothing. But now, that calm felt monstrous. “I needed to be absolutely sure. A pure history means no underlying, undetected lifestyle complications. No hidden blood-borne risks. My daughter cannot afford any complications.”
“Your daughter?” Meera gasped, her mind racing, trying to piece together the fragments of a nightmare that made no sense.
“Riya,” Ajay murmured softly, the only hint of warmth in his voice appearing when he spoke that name. “She is thirteen. Her kidneys are failing, Meera. She has a rare tissue type, just like her mother did. It took me three years and millions of dollars spent on illegal databases to find a perfect match. And then, a year ago, you walked into my firm for an interview.”
He turned around, holding a syringe filled with a clear, heavy liquid.
“You were perfect. Living alone in the city, no immediate family nearby to notice a sudden absence for a few days, a quiet life. But I had to be certain. I had to ensure your history was as flawless as your medical charts claimed. Tonight, you confirmed it yourself.”
Horror struck Meera like a physical blow. The slow-paced romance, the late-night dinners where he never pushed her boundaries, the gentle hand on her shoulder—it wasn’t respect. It was a rigorous, year-long quality check. He hadn’t been waiting for her to be ready; he had been waiting for her to voluntarily isolate herself with him in a place where no one would hear her scream.
“You’re insane,” Meera whispered, tears spilling over her cheeks as she bolted from the chair.
She lunged toward the heavy wooden door of Room 806, her hands desperately clawing at the electronic lock handle. She pulled it down, but the safety deadbolt was engaged from the master control panel near the bed.
Before she could press the release button, a heavy hand gripped her hair from behind, slamming her back against the door. Meera let out a sharp shriek, her purse dropping to the floor, its contents scattering across the carpet.
“Don’t make this difficult, Meera,” Ajay hissed, his face inches from hers. The mask of the sophisticated executive had completely slipped, revealing the desperate, ruthless predator underneath. “A struggle will only elevate your heart rate and introduce unnecessary adrenaline into your system. I need your organs pristine.”
“Help! Somebody help me!” Meera screamed at the top of her lungs, hammering her fists against the soundproofed door. In a luxury hotel like this, the walls were built for absolute privacy—a feature that was now sealing her doom.
Ajay threw his weight against her, pinning her arms down. The scent of his expensive cologne, which she used to associate with safety, now choked her. He raised the syringe, aiming for the side of her neck.
In a reflex driven by pure survival, Meera brought her knee up with all the force she could muster, striking him squarely in the groin.
Ajay groaned, his grip loosening just enough for Meera to slip out from under him. He stumbled back, dropping the syringe onto the thick carpet.
Meera didn’t hesitate. She didn’t try the door again, knowing he would catch her before she could unlock it. Instead, she bolted toward the living area of the suite, looking for any kind of weapon. Her eyes scanned the room—the glass ice bucket on the counter, a heavy metallic desk lamp.
She grabbed the lamp, ripping the cord from the wall outlet, and turned around just as Ajay recovered. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with a terrifying, lethal rage.
“You stupid girl,” he growled, stepping over the scattered items from her purse. “You think you can walk out of here? I own this floor tonight. The staff won’t disturb this room under any circumstances.”
Meera backed away toward the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that looked out over the sprawling, glittering lights of the city. They were eight hundred feet in the air. There was no escape behind her, only the drop.
“If you kill me, they will find you,” Meera defied him, her hands trembling as she held the lamp like a club. “The texts… I texted you! The police will trace it to your phone!”
