Chapter 2

Chapter 2

In my first year at Calloway University, I got addicted to a mobile game.

I wasn't talented. I was, however, rich and determined, a dangerous combination in any ranking system.

I posted on the university message board offering fifty dollars per rank to anyone willing to carry me. My contact requests exploded. Men sent screenshots of their records, lines they probably copied from dating apps, and—for reasons known only to them—pictures of their abs.

K was different.

He didn't flirt. He didn't brag. He was very good at the game, spoke only when necessary, and answered every message within seconds, no matter the hour.

We started by playing together. Then we started talking.

He told me he was poor. An alcoholic father. A sick mother. A younger sister still in school. His life, as he described it, was one long emergency.

Mine was the opposite.

My parents loved me, but business had consumed most of their time when I was growing up. They gave me money, opportunities, and everything material a child could want. What they couldn't give me was practice at being close to people.

I watched popular girls buy coffee for their friends, send holiday gifts, and remember birthdays. So I did the same. Food, gift cards, small presents—that was how I said, I noticed you. You matter to me.

K never seemed tired of me. He listened when I complained about classes. He remembered my presentations. When I couldn't sleep, he stayed online until dawn.

Near graduation, Calloway University announced that students with unpaid tuition wouldn't receive their degrees. K's birthday was that week. Afraid he couldn't pay, I transferred enough to clear his entire tuition balance and marked it as a voluntary gift.

He replied with a question mark.

I typed, Happy birthday. And congratulations on graduating.

His response came quickly.

We aren't right for each other.

Then: You're not my type.

Then: Is throwing money at people the only thing you know how to do?

And finally: Let's end this here.

I stared at the messages until the words blurred.

I thought I'd humiliated him.

I apologized again and again. I explained that I hadn't expected anything in return. I called once, terrified I would make things worse.

He blocked me.

When I logged into the game, our maximum-level bond was gone. He had deleted me there too.

One person had vanished from every corner of my life in less than ten minutes.

My roommate found me sitting on my bed, holding my phone.

"Evie," she said, trying to make me laugh, "I think your mysterious online boyfriend might've scammed you. You spent money on him, and he didn't even have the decency to pretend to appreciate it."

Selena had been visiting from the room next door. I remembered the way her eyes shifted before she looked away.

Within days, the story spread across our department: rich, foolish Evelyn Ashford had been dumped by an online boyfriend after trying to buy his affection.

That was when Julian appeared.

At first, he brought me breakfast. Then he began turning up everywhere—the empty seat beside me in the library, the restaurant where my friends and I had reservations, an escape-room game that needed one more player.

By the time I noticed how often he was there, he had become part of every day.

"There are no accidents," he'd told me with a smile. "Every time I run into you, it's because I planned to."

I had thought that was romantic.

Now it sounded like a confession.

Julian offered the exact things K had taken away: constancy, patience, attention. He remembered every detail. He made himself available before I knew I needed him. He never mocked the way I used gifts to show affection.

When he asked me to date him, I gave him one condition.

"I don't want to get married."

He raised three fingers as if swearing before a judge.

"Whatever Evie wants. If you never want marriage, we'll never marry. I only want to stay beside you."

The man who had created the wound returned under his own face and sold himself to me as the cure.

Outside the yacht lounge, I slowly stood.

Inside, the men kept talking.

"Rich heiress or not, Julian has her under control."

"Just get her pregnant. Women settle down once there's a baby."

"Careful, though. In the heat of the moment, don't call her Selena."

Their laughter hit the door.

My stomach turned.

Then a woman's voice rose above them, trembling beautifully.

"Julian... you did all of that for me? You let Evelyn misunderstand you for years because of me?"

The room went silent.

Selena.

A glass shattered.

Julian, who had sounded calm while discussing my value as a wife, could no longer control his voice.

"Selena? Why are you dressed like one of the servers?"

She sniffed. "I had to know the truth. Julian, I don't love Marcus Lowell. I never wanted to marry him. The person I've always loved is you."

There was movement inside—a chair scraping, someone inhaling sharply.

I couldn't see through the door. I didn't need to. Seven years of instinct told me Julian had gone to her.

One friend whispered, "His first love really is different. I've never seen him lose his head like this in front of Evelyn."

Another, already drunk, said, "He loved Selena in high school. They even lost a baby after an accident. That's why he's always felt guilty—"

"Shut up," someone snapped. "You're drunk."

"Why? If Evelyn hears, what's she going to do? She can't compare to Selena."

I turned away.

Not because I forgave them. Not because I was weak.

I simply couldn't breathe in that hallway anymore.

I took one step and walked straight into a man's chest.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Ashford."

The voice above me was mild and warm.

I looked up into gold-rimmed glasses and a face I knew mostly from financial magazines.

Marcus Lowell. Head of the Lowell family. My alleged childhood fiancé.

He glanced at the beads scattered over the floor, then at the almost-closed door.

"Are you here to catch someone cheating too?" he asked.

I stared at him. "Too?"

"A figure of speech."

"I've never done this before," I admitted. "What's the usual procedure?"

One corner of his mouth lifted.

"Watch closely. I only teach this lesson once."

He took hold of my purse strap—careful not to touch me—and guided me two steps aside.

Then Marcus Lowell, elegant in a white linen shirt and delicate glasses, kicked the lounge door open.