Chapter 4The Billionaire's Cruel Game

I’d heard that tone before.

When I was a kid and my cousin would come over, he loved to "excavate for treasure" in my bedroom. My drawings, the ones that took me days to finish, the special paints my mom had saved for months to buy me—he'd smear them all together into a muddy, useless mess, getting streaks of color all over his face.

My grandmother would come in, chuckling, and wipe his cheeks. "Oh, you little rascal. Such a troublemaker." She’d hug him tight. "You can't do that again, you hear?"

It was a scolding with no teeth. It meant nothing.

Just like now. Caleb was telling Sloane to stop, but the intimacy in his voice only empowered her, made her feel more secure.

She made a face at him, then looked away with a dismissive little huff.

Rhys stepped in to play peacemaker. "Alright, alright, it's getting late. Caleb, let's not keep the lady from her job."

That was it. I tore off the blue courier jacket and threw it at him. It hit him square in the chest.

"Since you're obviously not dead in a ditch somewhere, I guess I don't need this job anymore."

Caleb froze, his whole body rigid. The color drained from his face, replaced by a glacial fury. I'm sure in his entire privileged life, no one had ever done something like that to him.

The city lights flickered on, casting long shadows down the street. I got on my scooter and drove away.

Through the visor of my helmet, the world blurred.

I suddenly remembered the first time I met him. He was standing under a giant oak tree on campus, wearing a simple white shirt, the afternoon sun filtering through the leaves and dusting him in gold. His hazel eyes were full of light.

"You a freshman?" he'd asked. He was a junior, working the student orientation table. "You should join the activities committee."

So I did. Just to be in his orbit.

It gave me an excuse to have his number. The first time I ever texted him, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely type. What do you even say? I’d spent the entire day rehearsing, from the moment I woke up until the dorm lights went out.

Finally, I sent three pathetic little words.

Hey, it’s Leah.

He must have been holding his phone. The reply came back instantly.

You’re up late.

But now, when I opened our message thread, it was just a monologue. My monologue. Long, desperate green bubbles of text, unanswered. A digital monument to my own stupidity.

How could a person like me ever think someone like him could truly love me?

It was all a lie. A calculated, cruel lie, right from the very beginning.