Page 92 of Thor

I felt sick. They'd cleared out my office already, probably while gossiping about the photos everyone had seen. Photos of me having sex with Thor. Photos of me in my Little space at Thor's cabin. Me in my pink overalls and pigtails.

The shame burned through me all over again, acidic and hot. No one was supposed to see that side of me. Not ever.

My fingers moved to the phone's voicemail icon, hovering over the little red "3" that marked unplayed messages. All from Memorial Hospital's financial department. I'd been ignoring them for days, knowing what they would say. No job meant no insurance. No insurance meant Amy's treatments would stop.

I hit play and put the phone on speaker, letting the automated voice fill the quiet apartment.

"First unheard message..."

"Ms. Wright, this is Carol from Memorial Hospital Financial Services. We've been notified of a change in your insurance status and need to discuss payment options for your sister's ongoing treatment. Please call us back at your earliest convenience."

Delete.

"Second unheard message..."

"Ms. Wright, this is Carol again. It's urgent that we speak regarding your sister's financial arrangements. Her next treatment is scheduled for next week, and we need to confirm payment method. Please call us back immediately."

Delete.

"Third unheard message..."

"Amanda, this is Dr. Reeves. I understand there may be issues with insurance coverage for Amy. Please contact our financial department as soon as possible. We don't want to interrupt Amy's treatment protocol, but we need to address the financial situation. Call us."

Delete.

Panic clawed at my throat, making it hard to breathe. I dropped the phone onto the couch and pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the tears that threatened to fall. Again. I'd cried so much in the past five days that it was a wonder I had any tears left.

Amy's treatments cost thousands per session. Without insurance, there was no way I could afford them, even if I found another job immediately. And who would hire me now? The photos had spread through Ironridge's business community like wildfire. My professional reputation was as ruined as my personal one.

I forced myself to stand, my legs stiff from being curled up for so long. On Amy's bed, I'd laid out my interview clothes—a plain navy skirt suit I'd bought years ago for my first job interviews out of college. It was conservative, unremarkable. Nothing like the designer outfits I'd worn at Prestige, bought with bonuses and promotions I'd earned through years of dedicated work.

I picked up the jacket, feeling the cheap polyester blend under my fingers. It would have to do. Beggars couldn't be choosers, and that's what I was now—a beggar, hoping some construction company would overlook the scandal and hire me to manage their books.

The memory of Thor's cabin hit me like a physical blow—a sanctuary where I could let go and be little, where the weight of being perfect Amanda Wright, CPA, could slip away for a few precious hours.

In the bathroom mirror, a stranger stared back at me. Dark circles shadowed my eyes, and my copper hair hung limp around my face. I looked nothing like the polished professional who had confidently walked into corner offices to advise clients on tax strategy. I looked broken.

Too many shed tears.

"Get it together, Amanda," I whispered to my reflection, the words falling flat in the small bathroom. There was no room for my Little side anymore. No room for weakness. I had to be strong—for Amy, for myself.

I twisted my hair into a severe bun, applied concealer to hide the worst of the dark circles, and added a touch of mascara and lip gloss. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

My phone buzzed again as I was slipping on my shoes. I glanced at the screen: "URGENT: financial matters" from Memorial Hospital. My stomach twisted into knots. I couldn't deal with that now, not before this interview. I silenced the phone and shoved it into my purse.

One step at a time. Get through the interview. Get a job. Figure out how to save Amy's treatments. Don't think about Thor or the Heavy Kings or the photos that had destroyed everything.

I grabbed my purse and the folder containing my resume, forcing my chin up and my shoulders back as I headed for the door. The interview was in twenty minutes, and I couldn't afford to be late. I couldn't afford to fail.

Because if I did, it wouldn't just be my life in ruins—it would be Amy's too.

IronridgeBuilders,Inc.occupiedthe second floor of a faded strip mall, wedged between a discount liquor store and a vape shop that had "CLOSED PERMANENTLY" taped to its window. I sat in my car, staring up at the sun-bleached sign above an auto parts store, wondering if this was rock bottom or if I still had further to fall. The parking lot was cracked asphalt with weeds pushing through like persistent little middle fingers aimed at anyone who thought they might escape this place. Two weeks ago, I would have been sitting in the underground parking garage at Prestige, climate-controlled and squeaky clean. Now here I was, sweat trickling down my back as I psyched myself up to beg for a job that paid a third of my former salary.

The metal exterior staircase clanged under my heels as I made my way up, the sound announcing my arrival to anyone who cared to listen. A cigarette butt smoldered in a sand-filled bucket by the door, recently abandoned. The door itself was painted a shade of brown that might have once been dignified but now just looked tired.

I straightened my shoulders, tugged my ill-fitting jacket into place, and pushed open the door marked "Ironridge Builders, Inc." in peeling gold letters.

The reception area was a generous description for what amounted to a metal desk cluttered with stacks of paper, a fake plant with dust-coated leaves, and three plastic chairs that had seen better days. The walls were bare except for a collection of calendars—some featuring bikini models sprawled across construction equipment, others displaying the equipment alone, as if the company couldn't decide which fantasy to promote.

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