I Refuse to Be Your Toy

A woman in a couture gown collapsed at the threshold of my holistic apothecary.

I spent the entire night performing targeted acupuncture, brewing custom herbal decoctions, and pulling her back from the brink of death.

When her fianc finally arrived, his only reaction was a cold, accusatory sneer: "You drugged her, didn't you?"

It was only then that I realized she was Wendy Sheffield, the crown jewel of Manhattans elite.

Once she regained consciousness, she looked at me with patronizing charity. "Close your little shop," she said. "I have an estate in the Hudson Valley. You'll live there from now on, and I'll visit you once a week."

When I refused, her fianc lunged forward and slapped me across the face. "Still not satisfied? Did a backwoods peasant like you actually think you could occupy the seat of Wendy Sheffields lawful husband?!"

I threw them both out. Within twenty-four hours, the State Medical Board and the police raided my shop. The apothecary was boarded up, my landlord evicted me, and the neighbors gathered around, whispering and calling me a "backmarket criminal."

I tracked Wendy down, demanding answers in hysterics. She merely swirled her red wine, giving me a weary, patronizing smile.

"The principled, self-reliant boy routine is tired, Isaac. And your acting is terrible. Stop pretending."

"You purposely saved me just to get my attention, didn't you?"

She locked me away in her Hudson Valley estate, promising she would break me in slowly.

Then, a late-night fire claimed my life.

Now, I open my eyes. Outside the apothecary, there is a heavy, muffled thud against the oak door. I look down, take a slow sip of my chamomile tea, and pretend I didn't hear a thing.

In my past life, Wendy Sheffield locked me away in that secluded estate in the Hudson Valley.

She said my pride was too stubborn; it needed to be broken.

She said since I had chosen to be her kept man, I needed to learn how to serve my master.

After she left, Pierce broke in with his thugs.

His designer leather shoe ground into my face, his laugh cold and poisonous.

"A backwoods herbalist dreaming of marrying into the Sheffield dynasty? Wendy just wanted a taste of something organic. One bite, and once she's sick of it, she throws it in the trash."

Gasoline poured over my face, burning my eyes, choking my throat.

He turned and walked away.

The heavy iron doors of the estate were padlocked from the outside.

The entire forest went up in flames with me.

Until the moment I died, I didn't know what I had done wrong.

I had only tried to save a life.

Now, I open my eyes. I'm back in my familiar apothecary, surrounded by the comforting scents of dried lavender, ginseng, and cedarwood.

Outside, there is a heavy, muffled thud against the oak door.

I look down, take another sip of my tea, and pretend I didn't hear it.

It goes quiet for a moment. Then, desperate pounding starts.

I don't budge.

It's two in the morning. I'm going to bed. If the morning commuters find a body on my steps, it has nothing to do with me.

The pounding grows faster, frantic with panic at my silence.

Suddenly

"CRACK."

The old wooden frame gives way as the door is violently kicked open.

I bolt upright, rushing down the stairs from my loft.

The brass lock lies shattered on the floorboard. Wendy Sheffield stumbles in, one hand clutching her chest. Her face is paper-white, her lips a sickly shade of bluish-purple.

A wave of fury hits me.

If she had the strength to break down a solid oak door, why couldn't she drive herself to the ER?

Wendy's eyes cut through the dark, locking onto me with absolute, demanding authority.

"Come here," she gasps. "The needles... the herbal tea. Now."

I take three steps back.

I pull out my phone and dial 911.

I state my address clearly, calmly, and hang up.

Then, I open my camera and hit record.

I point the lens directly at her.

"It is 2:15 AM. This woman just broke into my property. I have called an ambulance. This video is proof that I have not touched her."

Wendy's pupils dilate.

A raspy, disbelieving hiss slips through her teeth. "What... what are you doing?"

"Securing evidence," I say, my voice flat. "If anything happens to you, I am not liable."

Her chest heaves. She has clearly never been treated this way in her life. The great Wendy Sheffield, the woman whose nod can sway the city's real estate market.

"You"

She doesn't finish. Her knees buckle, and she collapses onto the floor, unconscious.

The ambulance arrives within minutes.

I follow them to the hospital, mostly to ensure my name is cleared. In the sterile, fluorescent corridor of the ER, the sharp click of leather shoes echoes off the linoleum.

Pierce storms toward me, his hand already swinging to strike my face.

"You drugged Wendy, didn't you? I know your type!"

I catch his arm, shoving it back.

"Get your facts straight. Your fiance broke down my door in the middle of the night. If I hadn't called 911, she'd be a corpse right now."

Wendy's mother, Catherine Sheffield, follows closely behind. Her sharp eyes sweep over me like shes inspecting a cheap knock-off at a flea market.

"You saved my daughter, so of course you will be compensated," she says. "But you need to understand your place. Know what you are entitled to, and more importantly, what you are not."

She sighs.

"Wendy is too naive. She doesn't understand how predatory men from your background can be. She fell right into your little trap."

Pierce suddenly grabs me by the collar, twisting the fabric so tightly it cuts off my breath. His voice escalates to a shrill, accusatory pitch.

"What is this? Did she kiss you here? How many times did you have her? You shameless, parasitic leach!"

I look down. He's pointing at a red mark on my collarbonea mosquito bite from yesterday afternoon.

"That's not"

Before I can finish, Pierces face contorts with sudden alarm.

"Have you had a vasectomy?!"

At those words, Catherine Sheffield's expression shifts from disgust to sharp hostility.

"You have no right to father a Sheffield child," she says coldly, her voice cutting like glass. "Don't think you can anchor yourself to our family with a pregnancy. Even if Wendy bore a hundred of your children, a man like you will never walk through our front door."

She immediately turns to her bodyguards, ordering them to drag me to the clinic downstairs for a vasectomy.

Pierce lunges at me, trying to tear my shirt open.

I shove him away with all my strength.

"Why are you resisting?" Pierce sneers, his eyes burning with jealous rage. "I knew it. You calculated this entire thing just to trap her with a kid, didn't you? In your dreams!"

He kicks me hard in the stomach.

The air leaves my lungs. I double over, my back slamming against the cold corridor wall.

Just then, a booming voice echoes from the far end of the hall.

"Stop right there!"

Two police officers march toward us. "Who called?"

"I did," I choke out, leaning against the wall for support.

Pierce snarls, "You actually had the nerve to call the cops, you piece of garbage?"

I ignore him, unlocking my phone and pulling up the video.

"This woman broke into my private property at two in the morning. I called 911 and saved her life. Her fianc and mother arrived at the hospital, assaulted me, and are attempting to force a medical procedure on me against my will."

The video plays, showing everything from Wendy breaking my door to her fainting.

Pierce and Catherine's faces go pale.

Pierce tries to save face, letting out a bitter laugh. "Even if that's true, you should have left after saving her. Why are you still lingering here? You're just trying to milk this for a payday!"

The ER doors slide open.

"The patient is awake."

Pierce and Catherine immediately turn to push past, but the doctor stops them.

"She asked to see Isaac Prescott."

When I walk into the room, Wendy is propped up against the pillows. She is pale, but her eyes have already regained that cold, condescending sheen.

"You play a very clever game, Isaac," she says, her voice still rough from the attack. "Opening your apothecary right on my daily commute... I assume you dug up my medical records to find out about my heart condition."

"Then refusing to open the door, playing hard to get to make me think you're special... Congratulations. It worked."

She sighs, looking at me with a weary sort of amusement.

"Now that you've got what you wanted, you can close that little shop. I have an estate in the Hudson Valley. Youll move in there, and Ill visit you once a week. But first, you'll go get a vasectomy. You are not fit to father my children."

"I don't like my men flaunting themselves in public. You won't leave the estate without my permission. My staff will take care of your daily needs."

The room falls into a dead silence.

When I don't show the breathless gratitude she expects, Wendy arches an eyebrow.

"What? Surely you didn't think you'd actually become Mr. Sheffield?"

She speaks as if she's doing me a favor.

"Be sensible, Isaac. The Sheffield family is out of your league."

I look at her, completely disgusted, then turn to the door and call out, "Officers."

Wendy's face freezes. She sits up straight. "Isaac, what are you"

Before she can finish, the police officer steps in and recites the details of the break-in.

"Ma'am, we've reviewed the footage. Your medical episode has nothing to do with Mr. Prescott. Furthermore, you destroyed his property. You are liable for the damages."

Wendy's smug expression crumbles into something dark and confused. She stares at me, unable to comprehend that a man offered her patronizing "benevolence" would choose to call the cops instead of bowing down.

"Forget the damages," I say, looking at her with pure aversion. "I only hope Miss Sheffield never shows her face near me again."

"She's a curse."

Wendy lets out a soft, bitter chuckle.

"You're just emotional right now. Saying things you don't mean." She leans back against the pillows, her voice dripping with unshakeable confidence. "Its natural. A windfall like this would overwhelm any man from your background. I'll give you time to calm down."

I laugh out of sheer exasperation. Without a word, I turn on my heel and walk out.

The next morning, State Medical Board vehicles pull up outside my apothecary.

A bright red warning seal is plastered across my door.

The neighbors gather in a tight circle, whispering.

The inspector speaks loudly enough for everyone to hear.

"Suspicion of using unregulated, hazardous substances, allegations of sexual harassment against a client, and practicing medicine without proper local authorization."

The crowd gasps.

"I knew there was something off about him..."

"Disgusting. To think I bought herbal tea here. Do you think he has cameras in there?"

I don't bother defending myself.

In my past life, I screamed until my throat was raw, begging them to investigate the truth. All it got me was louder mockery and a broken lease slammed into my face by my landlord.

Instead, I carefully take down the hand-carved wooden sign that had belonged to my grandfathera legacy spanning three generations. I wrap it in an old canvas sheet and lock the door behind me.

Back at my apartment, I pull out a business card from the very bottom of my desk drawer and dial the number.

"The Integrative Medicine Summit tomorrow. I'll be there."

That is all I say. On the other end of the line, there is a sharp, ecstatic gasp.

After I hang up, a text from an unknown number comes through with a location pin.

Followed by two words: "Come here."

There is no context, but I know exactly who it is.

I stare at the screen, let out a cold laugh, and block the number without hesitation.

An hour later, there is a heavy pounding on my door.

Several large men in black suits stand on my threshold.

"Mr. Prescott. Miss Sheffield wants to see you."

I give them a two-word answer: "Go away."

The lead man shoves past me, forcing his way into my living room. His eyes land on a delicate celadon urn sitting on my side table. With a casual flick of his wrist, he knocks it to the floor.

The porcelain shatters, scattering fine, pale grey ash across the dark wood.

"Oh, my bad," he grins, showing his teeth. "We're just blue-collar guys, we don't know our own strength. If Mr. Prescott doesn't cooperate, I'm afraid more things might start breaking."

My chest tightens so hard I can barely breathe. My mother's ashes. I had carried them with me for ten years.

I swallow the lump in my throat, my hands shaking.

"I'll go with you."

When I am escorted into the private VIP lounge, before I can even process the room, a glass of red wine is splashed directly into my face.

Pierce stands there holding the empty glass, turning to the wealthy crowd gathered around the mahogany table.

"See? I told you. Once he knew Wendy was here, he'd come crawling!"

The table erupts into laughter, their eyes scanning me like I'm a cheap dish on a menu.

"This is him? A bit plain, isn't he?"

"These charity cases are only fun for a week or two. You get sick of them fast."

Pierce grabs me by my collar.

"Everyone gets one punch. Anyone who doesn't hit him is insulting me."

Wendy sits in the center of the plush leather sofa, letting out a soft sigh.

"Pierce is hurt, Isaac. Just take it."

"After all, he is my fianc. You will have to get used to things like this."

I take a deep, shuddering breath.

"Did you ever ask if I wanted any of this?"

I lock eyes with Wendy, speaking slowly and deliberately. "I told you. I want nothing to do with you. And I sure as hell don't want to be your kept pet."

Wendy shakes her head with patronizing pity.

"The hard-to-get act works once or twice, Isaac. Keep it up, and it just becomes tedious." Her tone shifts to one of cold instruction. "Right now, you should be learning how to please me."

With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I violently shove Pierce away. He shrieks in surprise as I grab a heavy wine bottle from the table and smash it against the edge of the hearth.

The room falls dead silent. A woman in the corner gasps, "Well, he's got spirit."

I throw the broken neck of the bottle down, push open the heavy double doors, and walk out without looking back.

The next day.

The International Integrative Medicine Summit, hosted by the world-renowned Prescott Global organization, is packed to the brim at the city's grand convention center.

I am seated in the very front row.

As I look down at the program, a pair of designer stilettoes stops in front of my boots.

Wendy's voice drops from above.

"Didn't I tell you that I don't like my men seeking attention in public?"

I look up, meeting her visibly irritated gaze.

"Not only did you sneak out, but you came to an event of this scale."

A woman in a red cocktail dress next to her leans over. "Wendy, is there a problem?"

Wendy says dismissively, "Nothing. Just a boy who needs to be taught his place."

The woman follows Wendy's gaze to me.

Her expression freezes. Her entire posture changes, straightening into a stance of absolute reverence.

"Dr. Prescott! You actually came! We invited you so many times, but you always declined... Having you here today is an absolute honor..."

She doesn't even finish her sentence.

Wendy's face turns completely pale.

Her eyes have finally traveled down to the nameplate on my seat.

"HONORED GUEST ISAAC PRESCOTT."

She is silent for a few seconds, then lets out a soft, mocking laugh.

"I have to hand it to you," she whispers, leaning down close to my ear. "You really have a lot of tricks up your sleeve. The independent boy act wasn't enough, so you set up this little display of competence just to make me think you're special, right?"

Her smile widens, but her eyes remain freezing cold.

"But unfortunately for you..."

She straightens up. "You don't realize that this entire summit is organized by Prescott Global. And my family has deep, personal ties with their executive board."

She raises a hand, beckoning the event coordinator over.

Pointing a finger at me, she says, "This man. Remove him. Blacklist him from the industry."

The coordinator doesn't move.

I don't move either.

Wendy's brow furrows. "What are you waiting for?"

Then she notices something. The crowd that usually flocks around her is backing away.

A ten-foot empty circle has formed around her.

I smile.

"Do you know why this international organization is called Prescott Global?"

I finally speak, meeting her trembling, uncertain gaze.

"Because my grandfather founded it. His name was Alistair Prescott."

The side doors of the auditorium fly open.

An elegant, white-haired man rushes in, the gold President's medallion of the Prescott Foundation pinned to his lapel.

Following right behind him, looking utterly disheveled and grey-faced, is Catherine Sheffield.

"Dr. Prescott!"

The white-haired president rushes to my side, bowing his head respectfully.

"Thank you for waiting, sir."

And behind him, Catherine Sheffield bends her waist in a deep, ninety-degree bow.