He Paid for His Mistress’s Tattoo, Not Mom’s Surgery

The morning light filtering into the hospital lobby is gray and unforgiving, much like the pit in my stomach. Mom is upstairs in the VIP suite, prepped and sedated for surgery, surrounded by nurses who speak in hushed, respectful tones thanks to the Knight family name. I’m down here, gripping a lukewarm cup of cafeteria tea, trying to stop my hands from shaking.

Then I see them.

Finn pushes through the revolving doors, Dior clinging to his bicep like a barnacle. They don’t look worried. They look annoyed.

"There you are," Finn says, his voice echoing too loudly in the quiet space. He’s wearing his 'power suit'—a navy polyester blend that shines under the fluorescents. "We need to talk. Now."

I stand up, my legs feeling like lead. "Leave, Finn. My mother is in surgery."

"Don't be dramatic," Dior chimes in, popping her gum. She’s wearing a sleeveless top despite the chill, deliberately showcasing a fresh, plastic-wrapped bandage on her shoulder. The sight of it makes bile rise in my throat. "We just came to talk some sense into you. Blocking him? Really?"

"You're acting crazy, Mae," Finn says, running a hand through his hair and glancing at his reflection in the glass partition. "So I didn't want to liquidate my assets. That doesn't mean you go running to some... whoever gave you the money. It looks desperate. You're embarrassing me."

"I'm embarrassing you?" My voice is a dry rasp. "You spent five thousand dollars on a tattoo for her while my mother was dying."

Dior smirks, patting the bandage. "It's art, sweetie. You wouldn't get it. Besides, Finn needed a release. You're always so heavy."

"Begging strangers for cash isn't a good look, Mae," Finn sneers, stepping closer, using his height to intimidate me. "Who did you cry to? Some loan shark? Or did you sell yourself?"

The air pressure in the room drops. The elevator doors behind me slide open with a soft chime, but the silence that follows is heavy enough to crush bone.

"Step away from her."

The voice is low, baritone, and terrifyingly calm. Finn freezes. I turn to see Cassius stepping out of the VIP elevator. He isn't wearing a suit today, just a black cashmere sweater and dark trousers that cost more than Finn’s entire existence. He moves with the lethal grace of a predator.

"Who the hell are you?" Finn demands, though his voice wavers.

Cassius doesn't even look at him. He signals to the two uniformed security guards stationed by the entrance. "Remove this trash. And ensure they are barred from the premises. If they resist, call the NYPD."

"You can't do that!" Dior screeches as a guard grips her arm.

Cassius finally looks at Finn, his eyes cold and dead. "Your suit is cheap, Mr. Scott. But your character is worthless. If you ever approach Mae again, I will dismantle your life piece by piece."

Finn opens his mouth, turns red, and then is unceremoniously shoved toward the exit. As the doors spin them out into the cold, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Cassius turns to me, the ice in his eyes melting instantly. "Come with me."

***

Three hours later, I am in a private studio in Manhattan, overlooking the skyline. The hum of the tattoo gun is a steady, grounding buzz. Cassius flew us here on a jet that felt like a living room, insisting I needed to "overwrite the memory."

The artist, a woman whose waiting list is usually two years long, wipes my forearm. "All done."

I look down. The sunflower is intricate, sketched in fine black lines, reaching upward. It’s beautiful. It’s mine. It’s a promise to seek the light, no matter how dark the soil.

"My turn," Cassius says.

I watch, stunned, as he removes his shirt. His body is sculpted, scarred in places I’ve never asked about. He sits in the chair and points to his ribcage, right over his heart. "Here."

He doesn't flinch once as the needle drags through his skin. When he stands up an hour later, a stylized sun sits on his ribs.

"The sunflower needs the sun to survive," he says quietly, buttoning his shirt. He catches my gaze in the mirror. "But the sun exists only to warm the flower."

My heart hammers against my ribs. It’s an intimate, permanent claim. He didn't just buy me dinner; he marked his body to match mine.

But the peace doesn't last.

By the time we land back in the city, my phone is blowing up. Not with texts, but with notifications. I open Instagram and feel the blood drain from my face.

Finn has posted a photo of himself looking dejected, with a long, rambling caption.

*"Heartbroken. You support a woman for five years, pay her rent, love her through her 'anxiety,' and the second she finds a sugar daddy, she dumps you. Be careful who you trust, guys. Some girls will sell their soul for a designer bag. #Betrayal #GoldDigger #MovingOn"*

It has thousands of likes. Dior has commented: *"You deserve so much better, baby. Karma is real."*

An email notification pops up at the top of my screen. It’s from the client I was supposed to start a freelance branding project with tomorrow.

*Subject: Contract Cancellation*

*Ms. Tucker, in light of recent public allegations regarding your professional ethics, we feel it is best to part ways...*

I stare at the screen, the beautiful sunflower on my arm suddenly feeling heavy. Finn isn't just breaking my heart anymore. He’s trying to starve me.