Chapter 1

The livestream feed on my phone was pixelated, but Ryan Blakely' s voice was perfectly clear. He stood on a stage, bathed in the glow of success, a multi-million dollar acquisition deal finally signed. Five years of my life, five years of unpaid work as his graphic designer, his strategist, his entire support system, had led to this moment.

His new backer, a man I' d never seen before, offered him a "boon," one public request to celebrate the victory. I held my breath in the cramped back room of the venue, my heart pounding against my ribs. This was it. He was going to propose, or at least, finally tell the world who I was.

Instead, Ryan smiled, a brilliant, camera-ready smile that didn' t reach his eyes.

"Thank you, sir. For my boon, I' d like to announce my engagement to the brilliant and beautiful Stella Lawrence."

The name hit me like a physical blow. Stella, the daughter of his lead investor. The polished, perfect woman he always compared me to.

He wasn' t done.

"Some of you may have seen a certain woman around me during the early days," he continued, his voice dripping with condescension. "A clout-chasing groupie. She was good for the struggle, but not for the high life. She' s not even in the same league as Stella."

The room erupted in polite applause. My world went silent. I felt the blood drain from my face, my hands turning to ice. A groupie. That' s what I was. After everything.

My fingers, numb and clumsy, found my phone. I pulled up the contact labeled 'Dad.'

My text was short.

"I lost the bet."

A reply came back instantly.

"Andrew is on his way. Come home, Gabby."

I nodded to the empty room, a single, jerky movement. It was over. The five-year experiment was a catastrophic failure.

Before Andrew could arrive, the door to our shabby Austin apartment creaked open. Ryan walked in, smelling of expensive champagne and victory. He didn't say a word, just pulled me into a rough, desperate embrace. His hands were all over me, his mouth finding mine. It wasn't love; it was a final act of possession, of marking his territory one last time before discarding it.

After, as I lay on the lumpy mattress we shared, he finally spoke.

"I'm sending you away, Gabby," he said, his voice a low murmur against my hair. "I'll get you a house, a car, a severance check. Enough to live comfortably. Just... stay away from Stella. You know how much she means to me."

He promised to stay the night, one last time for old times' sake. But then his phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was Stella' s assistant.

"Mr. Blakely? It's Stella. She's having a severe anxiety attack. She's asking for you."

Ryan was out of bed in a second, pulling on his pants. He didn't even look at me.

"I have to go," he said, already halfway to the door.

He left without a backward glance. A moment later, there was a soft knock. It was his personal assistant, a young man who always looked at me with pity. He held out a small, white paper bag.

"Mr. Blakely asked me to give you this," he said, avoiding my eyes.

Inside was a single morning-after pill. The final, brutal confirmation of what I was to him. A temporary convenience. A problem to be managed.