Addicted To His Fake Sugar Baby

The spreadsheet stared back at her, the blinking cursor in cell A1 a mocking reminder of her situation. Giselle took a deep breath and typed the number. $1,530,000. The sum of the wire transfers she could find in the chat history. The number looked obscene in black and white. She moved to the next row. Assets. She listed them quickly. Columbia Engineering Full Scholarship. Proficient in Python, C++, MATLAB. Fluent in English, Spanish, and French. 3.98 GPA. She stared at the list. It wasn't money, but it was capital. It was the only kind she had. She opened the Columbia University student job portal. Her eyes scanned the listings, her brain automatically filtering out the low-paying campus jobs. She needed speed, not convenience. Research Assistant, Quantum Computing Lab. $25/hr. Too time-consuming. Library Desk Attendant, Butler Library. $18/hr. Steady, flexible. Private Tutor, Physics 1200. $50/hr. This was it. She jotted the details down in her notebook. Applying online would take too long; she would apply for them in person tomorrow to ensure she got the positions immediately. She calculated the hours. It would take her years to pay off the debt at this rate. Decades. But it was a trajectory. It was a plan. She closed the laptop and leaned back in her chair, a tiny sliver of control returning to her chest. She was no longer just a victim. She was a debtor. And debtors could work their way out. The view from the penthouse suite at Clinique La Prairie was a wall of white. The Swiss Alps stood like frozen giants against the azure sky, but Dereck Campos wasn't looking at them. He was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, his left arm in a complex brace, his face a mask of bored frustration. A month. He had been stuck in this glorified sanatorium for a month, recovering from a skiing accident that should have killed him. The only thing keeping him entertained was the small, black device in his hand. His assistant, a man in a perfectly tailored suit who looked more like a secret service agent than a paper-pusher, approached the wheelchair. "Sir," the assistant said, his voice low and respectful. "There was an issue with the wire transfer from the Cayman account. It was rejected and returned." Dereck looked up, one eyebrow raised slightly. "Rejected?" "Yes, sir. The recipient declined the funds." Dereck took the phone. He scrolled through the chat history, reading the messages from the previous night. The whining voice memo. The photo of the bruised, red hand. The refusal of the doctor and the driver. He played the voice memo again. The girl's voice was a fragile, breathy whisper, thick with congestion and something else. Fear? Or just a really good act? He looked at the photo. The skin on her knuckles was scraped raw, the tiny smears of blood stark against the pale skin. It was a nice touch. Most scammers wouldn't go that far for authenticity. "She refused the money," Dereck said, his voice a low rumble. "Yes, sir." "And the driver?" "She explicitly stated she would not open the door for him." Dereck leaned back in his chair, a strange sensation stirring in his chest. It wasn't concern. He didn't care about this girl. She was a thief, a catfish using another woman's photos. He had known that from the beginning. Carleigh Ramsey's face was famous in certain circles. "Run a check on Carleigh Ramsey," he said. "Columbia student. I want her schedule and her current location." The assistant nodded and stepped away. Dereck continued to stare at the photo of the hand. It was a small hand. Delicate. It didn't look like the hand of a calculating grifter. The assistant returned a few minutes later. "Miss Ramsey is currently in the Hamptons. Her social media shows her at a party at a nightclub last night. She appears to be quite healthy." Dereck's lips curled into a thin, cold smile. So, the girl in the apartment, the one with the fever and the scraped knuckles, was not the girl in the photos. Someone else was playing MoonCookie. A scammer who didn't want money. A liar who refused help. A thief who acted like a prude. It was a contradiction. And Dereck hated contradictions. He tapped the screen, pulling up the chat window. He wasn't angry. He was intrigued. This wasn't a simple shakedown anymore. This was a game. And he was just starting to realize he had a new opponent. "Find out who is behind that account," Dereck said, his voice soft and dangerous. "Not the face. The person typing." He looked out at the snow-capped peaks, but he wasn't seeing them. He was seeing the raw, red knuckles. He was hearing the desperate, little cough. He was going to find her. And when he did, he was going to take her apart piece by piece, until he understood exactly what she was after.