Addicted To His Fake Sugar Baby

The cardboard box smelled like dust and cheap cologne. Giselle Stephens pulled out a stack of old textbooks, her fingers brushing against the rough edges. The apartment was quiet, the sounds of Morningside Heights muffled by the old windowpanes. This was it. The remnants of a two-year relationship packed into a single, pathetic box. She reached the bottom. Her fingertips hit something cold and smooth. It wasn't a book. She pushed the textbooks aside and pulled out a sleek, black smartphone. It was heavy, encased in a matte black armor that screamed money. It wasn't his usual cracked-screen iPhone. Giselle turned it over in her hands. There was no brand name, no logo. Just a seamless slab of glass and metal. It was wedged deep in the corner, as if it had been dropped in haste or shoved there deliberately. A trap left behind. She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the power button. Curiosity won. The screen lit up, blindingly bright in the dim room. A notification banner dropped down from the top. Oero: I'm back in the city. Let's meet tonight. The usual spot. Giselle's stomach dropped. Oero. The name hit her like a physical blow. She had heard it once before, slurred through tears and panic the night he left. Don't ever contact Oero. Don't even think about him. He makes people disappear from the docks. The memory of his terror was contagious. Her throat tightened, restricting her airway. She typed in the passcode. It was a stupid guess, born of a bitter hunch. Her birthday. The lock screen dissolved. Her eyes scrolled up the chat history. The air in the room seemed to vanish. The messages were a disaster of flirtation and greed. I need those shoes, Daddy. Miss you, Daddy. Send the bag, Daddy. The profile name attached to the outgoing messages made her vision blur: MoonCookie. But it wasn't the words that made her blood run cold. It was the photos. Dozens of them. Selfies in lace lingerie, pouty lips, perfect blonde hair. Every single photo was of her roommate, Carleigh Ramsey. Carleigh's face. Carleigh's body. Stolen from her social media, cropped and filtered to look like private nudes. And then she saw the numbers. Wire transfers. $10,000. $25,000. $50,000. A relentless stream of cash flowing into a linked account. Enough money to pay off a small mortgage, all extracted from a man named Oero using Carleigh's stolen face. The phone vibrated in her hand, the buzz violent against her palm. Oero: Don't be late. You know what happens when I'm kept waiting. The words weren't a request. They were a sentence. Giselle dropped the phone onto the bed like it had burned her. She scrambled backward, her hip hitting the corner of her desk. Pain flared, but it was distant, muffled by the roaring in her ears. She wasn't MoonCookie. She was Giselle Stephens, an engineering student on a full ride. She didn't know this man. But he thought he knew her. He thought he was talking to the girl in those photos. He thought he had been sending hundreds of thousands of dollars to her. Her legs gave out. She slid down the side of the desk until she hit the floor. The linoleum was cold against her bare legs. She pulled her knees to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible. The walls of the small bedroom seemed to be closing in, the air growing thicker, harder to breathe. If she didn't show up tonight, he would come looking. If she showed up, he would realize she wasn't the girl in the photos. Either way, she was dead. The words echoed in her skull. Disappear from the docks. A wave of nausea rolled over her. She clamped a hand over her mouth, swallowing down the bile that burned her throat. Her skin prickled with a sudden, violent heat, followed immediately by a shivering cold. Her teeth began to chatter, the sound loud in the silent room. She crawled toward the bed, her limbs feeling like they were filled with wet sand. The phone sat on the rumpled blanket, the black screen reflecting the fading daylight. It looked like a black hole, waiting to swallow her whole. A violent shudder wracked her body. She pulled the blanket over her shoulders, her fingers trembling so badly she could barely grip the fabric. Her forehead was burning to the touch, but her feet were blocks of ice. The stress, the shock, the sheer terror of the last ten minutes had short-circuited her system. She curled into a fetal position, clutching the phone to her chest like a grenade with the pin pulled. Her eyelids grew heavy, the adrenaline crash pulling her down into a dark, feverish pit. The last thing she saw before the darkness took her was the notification light blinking on the phone. A steady, rhythmic pulse of green. A countdown.