Chapter Two

[Wait, why does the side character seem kind of… in love?]

[Isn't she only in it for the money? Why is she crying like that?]

When I saw the comments, I ducked my head and wiped my face fast.

When I looked up again, Alexander—up ahead—had turned around at some point.

He was looking at me, his expression unreadable.

Terrified he'd want the breakup money back, I spun around, hitched my bag onto my shoulder, and left.

My white canvas sneakers caught a loose paving stone on the sidewalk, and dirty water splashed up all over the toes.

I'll admit it. As exits go, mine was a little pathetic.

But at least I got out.

…

As soon as I left his building, I ducked into the bank on the corner and deposited the seven thousand dollars in cash.

Then I ducked into the pawnshop next door.

The old man behind the counter took the platinum couple's ring and studied it under his loupe for ages. "Engraving on the inside. That brings the price down."

"Bring it down," I said.

The engraving said A&H. He'd slipped it onto my finger himself last Valentine's Day.

Anyway, starting today, no one was going to see it again.

That night, I curled up in my tiny rented room, doing the math and sending out résumés.

For three years, Alexander had given me ten thousand dollars a month.

I'd saved every cent. I'd even sold half the bags he gave me to a consignment shop.

If he'd given me just three thousand more today, I'd have hit five hundred thousand.

I opened the spreadsheet on my laptop named Chickens.

Year one: five thousand laying hens, one mobile coop.

Year two: double it, apply for free-range certification.

Year three: a new house for Grandma and Grandpa.

The last line was in bold red: Bird flu emergency fund, $50,000. DO NOT TOUCH.

The economy was bad, and I didn't dare play with investments. It was all sitting in CDs at the bank.

The interest wasn't much, but at least it only went one direction.

Once I'd finished the last of the math, I lay down on the bed, and only then did I have time to be sad.

I really was sad about the money. And I really was sad about Alexander.

I'd graduated from Kansas State with a degree in animal science and come to Chicago for an internship at an ag-tech company.

The day I arrived, a crooked rental agent scammed me out of a two-thousand-dollar deposit. Then I interned for three months without seeing a paycheck, and on the last day the company sent me packing with some flimsy excuse.

I was so broke I couldn't afford to eat when I met Alexander.

I guess when your luck gets bad enough, it has to turn eventually.

My whole life, people had said my face was too plain, too pale, too forgettable. And somehow it turned out to be exactly his type.

He was generous with me. I couldn't pay him back, so I worked even harder to make him happy.

He liked it when I clung to him. He liked it when I was sweet and needy.

To give him better emotional value, I even signed up for acting classes. I could turn three parts love into ten.

And after Alexander's relentless, daily campaign of being showered with money, what I felt for him had gone well past ten anyway.

But luck that comes fast leaves fast.

I was lying there, staring at the ceiling and wondering where I'd scrape together a living tomorrow, when the strange comments came scrolling out again.

[What is wrong with the male lead? He let our baby girl find out about the side character, and now she's upset. My poor baby.]

[If I remember right, the side character was with him first. The female lead's anger is kind of random.]

[Stop being contrarian. She's a canary. Since when does a canary count as the real girlfriend?]

The comments descended into chaos. I was getting dizzy when one especially bold line cut the whole fight short:

[Has the male lead lost his mind? He wants to use the side character to make our baby girl jealous? Let's see if she has the nerve to say yes.]

The second it vanished, my phone rang.

"The karaoke place in Wrigleyville. Room 305."

Alexander's voice came through the speaker. Short and to the point.

I remembered the comment and felt a little guilty. "We broke up, though. Maybe I shouldn't—"

"Five thousand."

"But—"

"Fifteen thousand."

"Still—"

"Thirty thousand dollars."

"I'll be right there."

I went out, swung a leg over my secondhand bike, and pedaled toward the pin he'd sent, straight into the night wind off Lake Michigan.

The whole way there, the comments tore me to shreds.

But fine. Let them.

Thirty thousand dollars for one trip. If it were them, they'd probably have pedaled faster than me.

Alexander wanted me to grovel over him in front of the female lead.

By then, I had a pretty good idea of where I stood.

But when I pushed open the door to the private room, the Hi, babe never made it out of my mouth. My smile froze on my face.

Because the woman in front of me—the comments' "female lead," their "baby girl"—

was Pearl Quinn.

The fake heiress who'd driven me out of the Quinn family all those years ago.