Chapter 7

Preston read the message and let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

"See?" he said, holding the phone out to Dereck. "Typical. Play dumb. 'Did I do something wrong?' It's a classic deflection."

Dereck took the phone. He stared at the little crying face. It was a good act. A very good act. But it was just an act.

Before he could respond, the phone buzzed again. A new message from MoonCookie.

This time, it wasn't a photo, but another voice memo. He tapped play. Her voice was different from before. The sickness was still there, a faint rasp, but it was layered with a trembling, wounded tone. It was the sound of genuine hurt.

"Daddy... why would you say that?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "It's a horrible thing to say. You're scaring me. Did I do something to make you think I'm not... me? I just... I thought you knew me." Her voice dissolved into a soft, choked sob before the recording ended.

Preston's smirk faltered. He listened to the message again, his brow furrowed. "Okay, that's... better than the last one. She's twisting it. Making it about your trust in her."

It was a masterful counter-attack. She hadn't defended herself with evidence. She hadn't argued. She had simply doubled down on emotional vulnerability. She had taken his attack and twisted it into him being the bad guy, a cruel boyfriend making his poor, sick girlfriend cry.

Dereck didn't say a word. He was listening to the voice memo a third time, focusing on the little hitch in her breath, the genuine-sounding fear.

A strange sensation washed over him. It wasn't pity. Dereck Campos didn't do pity. It was something darker. Something possessive.

He didn't care if she was lying. He didn't care if she was a scammer. The sound of her voice, the manufactured pain-it triggered something deep inside him, a need to control, to protect, to own.

He wanted to be the only one who scared her. He wanted to be the one who made her cry. And he wanted to be the one who made it better.

"That's enough," Dereck said, his voice low.

Preston looked at him, surprised. "What? You're not going to push back?"

"No." Dereck took the phone from Preston's hand. He deleted the "I know who you are" message from the chat, erasing the evidence of his friend's blunder.

He typed a new message, his thumbs moving with absolute authority.

It was a mistake. Forget it. I've ordered a full medical kit and a private nurse to be delivered to you in an hour. Don't open the door for anyone else.

He hit send. It wasn't a request. It was an order. He was taking control. He was fixing the problem he'd let Preston create. And he was putting a boundary around his property.

In New York, Giselle stared at the message. The relief that flooded her system was instantly replaced by a new, sharper terror.

A private nurse. In an hour.

She couldn't let a nurse in. A nurse would see her face. A nurse would see that she wasn't the girl in the photos. A nurse would report back to Dereck Campos, and the game would be over.

She had to refuse. Again. But this time, she couldn't use the "I'm too sick" excuse. He was offering her medical care. She had to find a new angle.

She thought fast, her mind racing through the possibilities. What would a sugar baby hate more than being sick? Being in debt? No. Being obligated?

She started typing.

No! Absolutely not! Daddy, I appreciate you caring about me, but a private nurse is too much! I can't accept something so expensive. It makes me feel... uncomfortable.

She was playing the pride card. The "I'm not a hooker" card. It was a risky move, but it was the only one she had left.

Please, I'm a big girl. I have my medicine now. Just let me rest. If you send anyone, I won't open the door. Please understand.

She hit send, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was betting her life on the idea that a man who was used to women taking his money would be intrigued by one who refused it.