Taming My Sugar Mommy

"You will cease all contact with Liam Campbell immediately," Marcus said, his voice carrying the weight of iron chains in the confined space of the car.

"You can't make me cut ties with him—he's my old friend," Lily protested, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her hands trembled in her lap as she struggled to maintain her composure. The fear was overwhelming. The man beside her radiated danger, like a coiled snake ready to strike.

Marcus pulled his gun out with practiced ease, pressing the cold metal against her temple. The weapon seemed to absorb what little warmth remained in the car. "You will obey, Mrs. Smith, if you value your pathetic life. Your friendship means nothing compared to what's at stake here. Did I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," she whispered, sweat beading on her forehead despite the car's air conditioning. The leather seats felt suffocating—too soft, too luxurious for the nightmare she'd found herself in. Through the windshield, she watched familiar London landmarks disappear as they sped away from everything she knew.

The vehicle accelerated again, weaving recklessly through traffic. Lily caught glimpses of other drivers' faces—normal people living normal lives, completely unaware of the terror unfolding just feet away. The city lights blurred as Marcus drove further and further from home.

When the car finally stopped, the sudden silence was deafening.

"Get out," Marcus commanded, his scarred face illuminated by the setting sun. His tone left no room for argument.

Lily hesitated, her mind racing. She checked her phone's location with trembling fingers, her breath catching when she realized she was 600 kilometers from her apartment. Darkness had already fallen, the unfamiliar streets stretching endlessly before her. Panic clawed at her throat.

In the distance, a neon motel sign flickered, a fragile beacon of hope. "Thank goodness," she breathed, though the relief felt thin, fleeting.

As she entered the motel's dimly lit lobby, her phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number: "Remember, I'm watching." Her heart skipped a beat, the words seeming to burn through the screen and into her mind.

Inside the dimly lit motel lobby, she tried to book a room, but her phone showed no signal—another reminder of how alone she was. Fortunately, the day had blessed her; she still had her ATM card. The desk clerk barely looked at her as she completed the transaction, oblivious to the storm raging inside her.

Once inside her room, she collapsed onto the bed, but sleep wouldn't come. The ceiling above became a canvas for her fears, replaying every moment of the terrifying drive. The gun. The threats. The cold certainty in Marcus's eyes.

Two hours passed as she stared upward, her mind refusing to quiet. She remembered her neighbor's warnings about the owner of Ashworth Events—a woman who would conquer any opponent to secure her empire. People had whispered about her methods, her ruthlessness, but Lily had dismissed it all as jealous gossip. Now she understood—those weren't rumors; they were warnings. She had no choice but to cut ties with Liam, no matter how much it hurt.

---

Morning couldn't come fast enough. The night stretched endlessly, filled with shadows and phantom noises that made her jump. All she wanted was to go home, feed her cat, and try—desperately—to piece her life back together.

But the moment she reached her apartment, she stopped cold.

Hanging from her doorknob was a noose.

Lily didn't go inside her apartment. She couldn't.

The noose still swayed slightly on the doorknob, the Polaroid burned into her memory. Someone had been in her motel room. Watching her sleep.

She felt sick. The blood drained from her face.

Then her phone vibrated.

Unknown Number:

"You're taking too long, Mrs. Smith."

Her stomach twisted. She forced herself to move. Not running. Running meant panic. Running made people look. And she knew—someone was watching.

She made it to her door, unlocked it with trembling fingers, and pushed inside.

Silence.

Then—a soft meow.

Whiskers stretched lazily on the couch, completely unaware of the danger.

Lily let out a shaky breath. She couldn't leave him behind.

She grabbed his carrier from the closet, scooped him up, and slid him inside. He protested, yowling in confusion.

"I know, baby. I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking.

She moved fast. Clothes. Cash. Laptop. Her brother's photo from the shelf. She shoved everything into a duffel bag, grabbed Whiskers's food, and zipped it up.

One last look.

She would never see this place again.

She turned off the lights and walked out, closing the door on her old life.

Outside, the city pulsed with life. All of them oblivious.

Her car was parked a block away. But her keys were in the apartment. Going back wasn't an option.

Taxis. A bus. A train. Anything but her own car.

A black cab idled at the corner. She forced herself toward it.

The driver barely glanced at her as she climbed in, shoving Whiskers's carrier onto the seat beside her.

"Where to?"

She hesitated.

She couldn't go to the police. She couldn't go to a friend's place. Everywhere she was known, they could find her.

"…King's Cross."

A train would get her far. No tracking, no license plates.

The driver pulled into traffic. Lily exhaled, gripping the edge of her seat.

Her phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number:

"Clever choice, but we're still watching."

She turned slowly, scanning the cars behind them. Which one? Who?

A silver sedan. A man on a motorcycle. A black van at the light.

Her hands turned ice-cold. They could be anyone.

She clenched her fists, forcing herself to breathe. She had to disappear.

---

At King's Cross, she paid in cash and walked straight to the departures board. No pre-booked tickets. No digital trail.

Scotland.

Wales.

Somewhere rural. Somewhere she could vanish.

She spotted a train leaving for Edinburgh in ten minutes. Perfect.

She bought a ticket from the kiosk—cash again—and slipped into the crowd, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder. 'If she looked, she'd panic. If she panicked, she'd be caught.'

Boarding the train, she found a seat near the back, away from the windows. Whiskers meowed softly, restless in his carrier. She reached inside, stroking his fur with shaking fingers.

As the train pulled away from the station, she finally dared to check her phone.

No new messages.

No calls.

No sign of them.

For the first time in days, she almost felt safe.

Then she glanced at the seat across from her.

A folded newspaper lay there.

Curious, she reached for it—then froze.

A note was tucked inside.

"You're going the right way, Mrs. Smith. Keep running."

Her breath hitched.

They were on the train.

She wasn't running fast enough.