Faking Love for Her Fortune

I was in my third month of playing the part of Sabrina Sinclair’s trophy boyfriend when she wrapped her Porsche around a guardrail and ended up in a medically induced coma.

Just as I was about to pack my designer luggage and slip out the back door like any sensible gold digger, a stream of neon-blue text floated across my vision, looking exactly like the live chat on a Twitch stream.

[These boy toys have absolutely no vision. She’s just in a coma, not dead. She’ll wake up in three years.]

I froze. I rubbed my eyes hard, but another line of text scrolled past immediately: