Addicted To His Fake Sugar Baby

Preston stared at the screen, his jaw set. He was done playing games. This girl-this scammer-was trying to sink her claws into his friend, and he wasn't going to let it happen. He typed the message quickly, hitting send before he could second-guess himself. I know who you really are. It was a bluff. A shot in the dark. But it was the kind of blunt-force trauma that shattered composure. He handed the phone back to Dereck. "Watch. She'll panic. She'll make a mistake." Dereck took the phone, his eyes on the screen, waiting. A thousand miles away, in a small apartment in Morningside Heights, Giselle was staring at her laptop. She had just finished a practice test for her Advanced Thermodynamics class, her brain feeling like mush. She needed a shower and a solid eight hours of sleep. Then the phone buzzed. It wasn't the usual gentle vibration. It was a harsh, insistent buzz that seemed to rattle the glass of water on her nightstand. She picked it up, her heart already starting to pound. The message was from Oero. It was short, just one line. I know who you really are. The room tilted. Giselle's vision narrowed to a single point of light-the screen. The words blurred, then sharpened, each letter a tiny dagger. He knew. He knew she wasn't Carleigh. He knew she wasn't MoonCookie. He knew her name, her address, her social security number. He knew she was a fraud. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. The walls of the apartment seemed to be closing in, the air growing thin. She was going to pass out. She was going to die. The man who made people disappear from the docks was coming for her. She dropped the phone. It hit the floor with a clatter, the screen still glowing. She wrapped her arms around her knees, rocking back and forth, her whole body shaking. The fear was a physical weight, crushing her chest, making it impossible to breathe. He knows. He knows. He knows. The thought repeated like a mantra, a death knell. She was finished. She should pack a bag. She should run. She should- Wait. The engineer in her, the logical, problem-solving part of her brain, forced its way through the panic. She stopped rocking. She stared at the phone on the floor. Think, she commanded herself. Analyze the data. The message was vague. "I know who you really are." It didn't say, "I know you're Giselle Stephens." It didn't say, "I know you're not Carleigh." It was a generic threat. A fishing expedition. If he really knew, he wouldn't be texting. He would be sending his driver, or the police, or a hitman. He was trying to get her to confess. He was bluffing. She picked up the phone, her fingers trembling so badly she nearly dropped it again. She had to be careful. One wrong word and the trap would snap shut. If she asked, "What do you mean?" or "How did you find out?" she was admitting guilt. She had to play dumb. She had to be MoonCookie, the silly, spoiled girl who didn't understand why her boyfriend was being mean. She started typing, erasing and retyping every word. Daddy, what are you talking about? Of course you know who I am. I'm your MoonCookie. Did I do something wrong? :( She added the crying emoji for good measure. It was the perfect defense. It was innocent, it was confused, and it turned the accusation back on him. It made him the bad guy for scaring his poor, sick girlfriend. She hit send. The message whooshed away. She threw the phone onto the bed and backed away, wrapping her arms around herself. She had made her move. Now all she could do was wait for the executioner's reply.