Half-Million Dollar Bait： Campus Belle’s Hell - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
You are reading Half-Million Dollar Bait： Campus Belle’s Hell, Chapter 2: Chapter 2. Read more chapters of Half-Million Dollar Bait： Campus Belle’s Hell.
"Auntie, why cut your world tour short? Didn't you want to see everything?" I asked as the bus rumbled down the dusty Myanmar road.
Margaret Lowell gave a warm, matronly chuckle while adjusting her floral scarf. "Oh honey, life had other plans! My daughter-in-law's due any day now. Guess who's trading passport stamps for diaper duty?" She winked. "This grandma's got new priorities."
So the globetrotter was hanging up her suitcase for rocking chairs and baby giggles. Her voice carried that bittersweet note—the kind you hear when someone leaves behind one joy to embrace another.
"That's amazing, Auntie! You'll be holding that little one before you know it," I said, genuinely happy for her.
Margaret's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Thank you, Sophia dear. And I hope—"
A violent thrashing interrupted us. Gregory Hill, who'd been dozing beside his wife, suddenly went rigid. His body convulsed like a fish on a line before collapsing onto the bus floor with a sickening thud. White foam bubbled at his lips.
"Gregory!" Margaret's scream pierced the air. She lunged for the driver, her manicured nails digging into the seatback. "Stop the bus! My husband needs a hospital—now!"
But Myanmar bus drivers don't do favors. This one just glared in the rearview mirror, barking something in rapid Burmese before jerking the vehicle to a halt. He marched down the aisle, his sandals slapping against the worn flooring, and yanked open the door.
"Out!" he snapped, gesturing violently at the unconscious Gregory. "Take your problems elsewhere!"
Margaret looked like she'd been slapped. Their guide had bailed last minute, and now they were being dumped roadside like unwanted luggage. Tears pooled in her mascaraed lashes as she clutched my arm with surprising strength.
"Sophia, please," she begged, her voice cracking. "I'll give you twenty thousand dollars—just help me get him to a doctor!" Her French manicure dug into my skin. "You're our only hope!"
My stomach twisted. They could've been my parents—gray-haired tourists in over their heads. Before I could second-guess, I heard myself say, "Of course, Auntie. Let's just focus on helping him."
The gratitude in her eyes could've powered the bus. Together we hauled Gregory's limp form onto the roadside. The old coot looked frail but weighed a ton; my arms shook with effort, sweat soaking through my tank top.
As I flagged down a taxi, the bus driver leaned out his window. "Pretty girl like you..." he muttered in heavily accented English, shaking his head. "Such waste."
The words prickled my neck like spider legs. Waste? Since when was helping people wasteful?
A beat-up yellow taxi screeched to a stop. The driver—all gold-toothed smiles—helped us bundle Gregory into the backseat. We'd barely pulled away when...
Gregory's eyes flew open. Crystal clear. Not a trace of illness.
Before I could react, a chemical-soaked cloth smothered my face. Margaret's grip became a vise on my arms. I thrashed, but each panicked breath dragged me deeper into a syrupy darkness. The last thing I saw was Margaret's tear-streaked face morphing into something cold. Calculating.
Then—nothing.
I woke to a spinning world, my mouth cottony, my skull pounding like a war drum. Somewhere between helping and hostage, I'd crossed a line there'd be no coming back from.
Margaret Lowell gave a warm, matronly chuckle while adjusting her floral scarf. "Oh honey, life had other plans! My daughter-in-law's due any day now. Guess who's trading passport stamps for diaper duty?" She winked. "This grandma's got new priorities."
So the globetrotter was hanging up her suitcase for rocking chairs and baby giggles. Her voice carried that bittersweet note—the kind you hear when someone leaves behind one joy to embrace another.
"That's amazing, Auntie! You'll be holding that little one before you know it," I said, genuinely happy for her.
Margaret's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Thank you, Sophia dear. And I hope—"
A violent thrashing interrupted us. Gregory Hill, who'd been dozing beside his wife, suddenly went rigid. His body convulsed like a fish on a line before collapsing onto the bus floor with a sickening thud. White foam bubbled at his lips.
"Gregory!" Margaret's scream pierced the air. She lunged for the driver, her manicured nails digging into the seatback. "Stop the bus! My husband needs a hospital—now!"
But Myanmar bus drivers don't do favors. This one just glared in the rearview mirror, barking something in rapid Burmese before jerking the vehicle to a halt. He marched down the aisle, his sandals slapping against the worn flooring, and yanked open the door.
"Out!" he snapped, gesturing violently at the unconscious Gregory. "Take your problems elsewhere!"
Margaret looked like she'd been slapped. Their guide had bailed last minute, and now they were being dumped roadside like unwanted luggage. Tears pooled in her mascaraed lashes as she clutched my arm with surprising strength.
"Sophia, please," she begged, her voice cracking. "I'll give you twenty thousand dollars—just help me get him to a doctor!" Her French manicure dug into my skin. "You're our only hope!"
My stomach twisted. They could've been my parents—gray-haired tourists in over their heads. Before I could second-guess, I heard myself say, "Of course, Auntie. Let's just focus on helping him."
The gratitude in her eyes could've powered the bus. Together we hauled Gregory's limp form onto the roadside. The old coot looked frail but weighed a ton; my arms shook with effort, sweat soaking through my tank top.
As I flagged down a taxi, the bus driver leaned out his window. "Pretty girl like you..." he muttered in heavily accented English, shaking his head. "Such waste."
The words prickled my neck like spider legs. Waste? Since when was helping people wasteful?
A beat-up yellow taxi screeched to a stop. The driver—all gold-toothed smiles—helped us bundle Gregory into the backseat. We'd barely pulled away when...
Gregory's eyes flew open. Crystal clear. Not a trace of illness.
Before I could react, a chemical-soaked cloth smothered my face. Margaret's grip became a vise on my arms. I thrashed, but each panicked breath dragged me deeper into a syrupy darkness. The last thing I saw was Margaret's tear-streaked face morphing into something cold. Calculating.
Then—nothing.
I woke to a spinning world, my mouth cottony, my skull pounding like a war drum. Somewhere between helping and hostage, I'd crossed a line there'd be no coming back from.
End of Half-Million Dollar Bait： Campus Belle’s Hell Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to Half-Million Dollar Bait： Campus Belle’s Hell book page.