Chapter 1

Wyatt was bankrupt. He owed two million dollars, and his creditors had supposedly broken his leg.

To keep him alive, I worked five jobs a day. I even signed up for shady, underground medical trials and sold my blood plasma twice a week.

He used to hold me, sobbing, swearing that once he got back on his feet, he’d make me the happiest woman alive.

Until today.

Outside the VIP wing of a private hospital, I saw the man who was supposed to be paralyzed in bed.

He was wearing a bespoke Tom Ford suit, looking incredibly handsome as he gently helped the city's richest heiress out of a car for her prenatal checkup.

The bankruptcy was a lie. The shattered leg was a lie.

The only thing real was how he had drained me dry, body and soul.

I didn't make a scene. I simply turned around and handed all his dirty secrets to Gabe, the most powerful, ruthless billionaire in New York.

"Mr. West," I said, looking into his cold eyes. "Want to make a deal? I’ll help you destroy him."

I didn't even flinch when the needle pierced my vein.

The nurse drawing my blood looked at me like I was a crazy person. "Miss Roxy, this is your third time donating plasma this month. If you keep this up, you’re going to collapse."

"Just do it. I need the cash," I said, my voice dry and raspy.

As the bright red blood flowed through the tube and into the bag, my vision blurred, dark spots dancing before my eyes.

To get the thousand-dollar compensation for this experimental drug trial, I had signed a waiver releasing the clinic of all liability.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed. It was Wyatt.

"Roxy, they’re here again," Wyatt whimpered, his voice shaking violently over the line. "They said if they don't get the money today, they’re going to break my other leg..."

"...I’m so scared. Please, save me..."

In the background, I could hear the terrifying sound of furniture being smashed to pieces.

I bit my pale lip so hard it almost bled, forcing down the dizziness as I tried to soothe him.

"Don't worry, Wyatt. I got the money. I’m transferring it to you right now. Lock the door and don't go outside."

After hanging up, I immediately transferred the $3,000 I had just earned into his account.

This was the third month of Wyatt’s "bankruptcy."

Three months ago, his tech startup collapsed, leaving him with a two-million-dollar debt.

The loan sharks had tracked him down. Right in front of me, they had brutally shattered his right leg with a metal pipe.

That day, covered in blood, Wyatt had shielded me with his body, screaming, "Don't touch her! I’ll pay you back! Every cent!"

Because of those words, I willingly threw myself into this bottomless pit.

I quit my decent corporate job. I loaded pallets in a warehouse by day, took night shifts at a diner, and spent my weekends selling blood and testing experimental drugs.

I turned myself into a mindless, money-making machine.

All because of what Wyatt had promised: "Roxy, once I get through this, I’m going to give you the most beautiful wedding in New York."

After the blood draw, I braced myself against the wall and slowly stumbled out of the clinic.

It was pouring outside. I couldn't even afford an Uber, so I pulled my cheap jacket tightly around myself and walked toward the subway.

As I passed the city's most exclusive private maternity hospital, a sleek black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the curb.

The door opened, and a large black umbrella was raised.

Under the umbrella stood a man in a perfectly tailored designer suit.

He stood tall, walking with a perfectly steady, confident stride as he carefully helped a pregnant woman out of the backseat.

"Slow down, Wyatt. The baby is kicking," the woman giggled, her face radiant with happiness.

The man wrapped his arm tenderly around her waist, whispering in her ear, "Careful on the steps, sweetheart. Today is our baby’s first 4D ultrasound."

A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, lighting up his face.

I froze in the pouring rain, the blood in my veins turning to ice.

It was Wyatt.

The same Wyatt who, just thirty minutes ago, had been sobbing on the phone, screaming that he was being beaten by loan sharks. The Wyatt who was supposed to be paralyzed in our damp basement apartment.

He didn't need a wheelchair. His legs were perfectly fine.

He was wearing a suit that cost more than my annual rent, sporting a Patek Philippe watch, gently escorting another woman.

I stood there like a hollow doll, staring at the happy couple.

I recognized the woman.

Chloe Monroe. The sole heiress to the massive Monroe empire. A true princess of New York high society.

Suddenly, things clicked. I remembered how Wyatt had started wearing a subtle, expensive cologne recently.

He told me he used it to cover up the smell of his pain-relief patches.

But now, even through the heavy curtain of rain, I could smell the scent of his new life—expensive, exclusive, and built entirely on lies.

I didn't rush over to scream at him.

I was too exhausted. I didn't even have the energy for anger.

I just stood in the rain, watching them walk through the revolving glass doors of a world I could never enter.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A Snapchat message from Wyatt.

“Roxy, got the money. The guys left. My leg hurts so bad, I miss you. Can you come home early tonight?”

Looking at the text, I suddenly started to laugh.

I laughed until my tears mixed with the rain, washing down my face.

Roxy, you are a complete, utter fool.