Chapter 2

Giselle woke up choking on her own breath. Her head was pounding, a dull, heavy throb behind her eyes that matched the rhythm of her racing heart. The room was bathed in the orange light of a setting sun. She had slept the entire day away.

She rolled over, her muscles screaming in protest. Her throat felt like sandpaper. And then she saw it. The black phone was lying on the pillow next to her, the screen a harsh, accusing glare.

Ten missed calls. All from Oero.

And one new message.

Oero: I'm getting impatient.

The fear came back, sharper and colder than before. It sliced through the fog of her fever, leaving her completely alert. She sat up, her head swimming for a moment before settling. Panic was a luxury she couldn't afford. She was an engineer. Engineers solved problems. This was a problem.

She grabbed a notebook and a pen from her nightstand, her handwriting shaky but determined.

1. I am the scapegoat.

2. Oero is dangerous.

3. I cannot expose my real identity.

She stared at the three points. The logic was sound, but it didn't tell her who she was dealing with. She picked up the phone again, her thumb hovering over the chat history. She scrolled up, past the threats, past the photos, past the sickening sweet talk. She needed data. She needed a vector.

Then she found it. A wire transfer receipt from three months ago. The sender field didn't say Oero. It said P.S.H. Holdings, LLC. The amount was $120,000.

Giselle dropped the phone on the bed and lunged for her laptop. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing the name into the search bar. The results were sparse, pointing to a labyrinth of shell corporations. This wasn't a company; it was a ghost, designed to be untraceable. But her engineering mind didn't give up. She cross-referenced registration data with financial databases, pulling on a thread of public records until it led her to a single majority shareholder. The blood drained from her face.

Campos Capital Partners. A hedge fund. Not just any hedge fund, but one of the most aggressive, ruthless firms on Wall Street. And the founder, Dereck Campos, was a monster in a tailored suit.

Her hands shaking, she went back to the black phone. There had to be more. In a hidden folder, marked only with a single dot, she found a handful of deleted photos. Most were nothing, but one caught her eye. It was a close-up of a man's hand on the steering wheel of a luxury car, his wrist adorned with a watch she'd never seen before-a skeletal face, all black metal and complex gears. It was unique. Unforgettable.

She opened a new tab and typed "Dereck Campos" into an image search. The third photo was from a Forbes article. The Man Who Makes Wall Street Weep. The piece detailed his rise to power, his complete lack of empathy, and his brutal takedowns of rival firms. And there, on his wrist, was the watch. The same black metal, the same skeletal face. The connection was undeniable. But it was the final paragraph of the article that made her stomach heave.

Mr. Campos is known for his private sense of justice. A former partner who attempted to embezzle funds was never seen again after a contentious dispute, last seen in the vicinity of Campos's private Hamptons estate.

The dock. The exact same detail her ex had choked out in terror. Oero was Dereck Campos. She had been catfishing one of the most powerful, dangerous men in the financial world.

Her chest tightened. She couldn't breathe. The walls of the apartment felt like they were crushing her. She was a dead girl walking. She had scammed a man who made people disappear for a living.

She looked at the phone. The message I'm getting impatient glowed on the screen. She had to reply. Silence was an admission of guilt. She had to play the part, just enough to buy herself some time.

She started typing. I'm sorry, I can't make it. No, too formal. MoonCookie was a sugar baby. She was supposed to be desperate and clingy.

She deleted it and tried again. Daddy, I'm so sorry. I caught a terrible flu, I can barely get out of bed. Can we please reschedule? I miss you so much.

The word "Daddy" made her skin crawl. It felt dirty, wrong on her tongue. But it was the language of the chat history. It was the only language he understood.

She hit send. The message delivered. She stared at the screen, her breath held, counting the seconds. One. Two. Three.

The reply came faster than a heartbeat.

Oero: Prove it.

Two words. No emojis, no warmth. Just a cold, hard command. He didn't believe her. Of course he didn't. Liars always assume everyone else is lying.

Giselle stared at the screen, her mind racing. How did you prove you were sick to a man who was thousands of miles away, without showing him your face or your apartment? How did you prove a lie with the truth?