Chapter 1Pay Me Back Mr Billionaire

The moment I stood on the edge of the rooftop, ready to let the wind take me, a ledger crystallized in my mind. Cold. Precise. Irrefutable.

It whispered a truth I hadn’t been able to see: I was nothing more than a "disposable muse"—the tragic, short-lived "pure heart" in some twisted redemption arc. And my boyfriend, Grayson? He wasn't the struggling student he pretended to be. He was the crown prince of a Manhattan real estate empire, a man who could buy and sell the very building I was standing on.

For four years, he had played the role of the starving artist, watching me get bullied and overworked with a detached, chilling silence. As it turned out, my suffering was merely his "test."

The most sickening part? According to the script of his life, after my death, he would reclaim his throne and unleash a wave of "vengeful" grief. He’d probably light a hundred-dollar bill at my grave, sighing about how I was the only girl who ever loved him for his soul and not his billions.

But the reality? For those four years, I was his benefactor. He ate, slept, and breathed on my dime. Even that five-figure designer watch on his wrist was something I’d bought by maxing out three different credit cards.

I didn't jump. I stepped back from the ledge.

I walked down those stairs, found him in the middle of the crowded quad, and slammed a stack of itemized bills—years of accumulated debt—right into his face.

"Hey, Grayson. It’s time to settle up. Fifty thousand dollars. I want every cent."

* * *

The spreadsheets, crisp and cold, fluttered against his face before hitting the pavement.

Grayson’s expression darkened instantly. "Nina, haven't you had enough of this tantrum?"

He reached out to grab my wrist, but I wrenched it away with a force that surprised even me. My skin burned where he’d touched it.

"Nina, honey, don't be like this. If it's about money, we can talk," Isabelle stepped forward, her hand sliding possessively into the crook of Grayson’s arm. She looked at me with that pitying, "bless your heart" smile she always used for the help. "Grayson didn't mean to hurt you."

I laughed. My eyes landed on the limited-edition jacket she was wearing. Grayson had told me it was a birthday gift for her. A "high-end knockoff," he’d called it.

Coincidentally, he’d taken five thousand dollars from me last month. Claimed it was a "family emergency."

"That jacket he bought you last month? I’m pretty sure I paid for that too," I said, my voice cutting through the humid afternoon air. "Tell him to pay me back for that, as well."

The smile on Isabelle’s face cracked, piece by piece. "What are you talking about?"

"Nina, you’ve lost it!" one of Grayson’s hangers-on shouted, stepping into my personal space. "You think a guy like Grayson needs your money?"

"Exactly! You got dumped, so now you’re throwing dirt? It’s pathetic," another chimed in.

They circled me like vultures, their faces full of righteous indignation. To them, I was the gold-digger. The jealous ex. The girl who couldn't handle being told no.

I turned to the first one. "Caleb."

"Last week, you bought that new gaming rig. You asked Grayson for five hundred. He told you he was broke and took my card to pay for it."

I pivoted to the next one. "Brooks. Two nights ago at The Onyx. You put a two-thousand-dollar tab on a card Grayson said was his. Want me to pull up the bank statement for the group?"

The quad went silent. Only the rustle of the wind and the hushed whispers of the gathering crowd remained.

Grayson stared at me, his eyes twin pits of ice. "Nina, four years of everything we shared... and all you see is money?"

What a performance. If it weren't for that ledger burning in my brain, I might have actually believed him.

"Yes," I replied. "Our 'love' has a price tag now."

I pulled out my phone, opened the calculator app, and shoved the staggering total in his face. "Fifty thousand. Not a penny less. Venmo? Zelle? Or do you need to ask your daddy for an advance?"

The murmurs grew louder. Dozens of phones were out, lenses trained on us.

"Holy shit, check the school’s Sidechat!"

"It’s going viral! The architecture prodigy has been 'charity-funding' the secret billionaire heir for four years?"

"Billionaire? Which one?"

Just then, a black Maybach glided silently to the curb. The door opened, and a middle-aged man in a sharp charcoal suit and white gloves stepped out. He ignored everyone, walked straight to Grayson, and opened a black silk umbrella over his head.

He bowed slightly. "Mr. Grayson, your father expects you home."

Grayson straightened his collar, smoothing out the wrinkles where I’d grabbed him. He looked at me, and for a second, the mask of the "struggling artist" was gone.

"Nina," he said, his voice flat and terrifyingly calm. "The game is over."