Bought with Millions, Paid with Death

Clutching the bone marrow biopsy report, I walked out of the private hospital, my face completely expressionless.

The doctor's verdict had been blunt: the cancer was progressing aggressively. My remaining days were strictly a countdown.

I had just settled into my car when my phone buzzed. A trending entertainment headline flashed across the screen.

In a backstage blind spot at a Paris fashion show, Noah Pierce was leaning in close, sharing a water bottle with an up-and-coming model. The chemistry in the photo was palpable.

My eyes lingered on the nauseating GIF for a few seconds before I dialed Noah's number. 

Without fail, three consecutive calls went straight to voicemail.

Half an hour later in my office, my assistant approached me tentatively. "Ms. Vance, should we arrange the private jet for Mr. Pierce tonight as usual?"

I couldn't hold back a cold sneer. A stray dog I'd dragged out of a back-alley gutter and molded into a star was now playing the diva. 

"No need." I folded the terminal diagnosis report and shoved it into my pocket.

"And tell security to revoke Noah's VIP elevator access. If he wants to come up, he signs in at the front desk for a visitor's pass like everyone else."

"Also, from now on, stop calling him 'Mr. Pierce'."

After dismissing my assistant, I locked myself in the empty office.

I dragged myself through the next few hours until the phone on my desk finally rang.

The incredibly busy man had finally remembered to call back.

But the second the call connected, the background noise was deafening—heavy EDM and high-pitched female laughter.

"I'm busy, Miranda," he yelled impatiently over the noise. "I'm taking shots with executives trying to lock down a major luxury campaign. If it's nothing urgent, I'm hanging up."

The line went dead before I could speak.

He hadn't even bothered to ask: How did your hospital visit go today?

Usually, my PR team would have scrubbed the internet clean of those rumors by now.

But this time, I didn't make a single call.

I just stared at the terminal report, letting the hours slip away until morning threw light across the desk.

Near noon, I was back at my apartment changing clothes when the front door opened. 

Noah pulled off his sunglasses and walked in. His eyes were bloodshot from a hangover, and he carried an overwhelming stench of stale alcohol mixed with an intensely pungent, cloyingly sweet perfume.

Just like always, he stepped up to me and habitually bowed his head, waiting for me to loosen his tie. That perfume hit my nostrils.

Disgusted, I stepped back. "Go take a shower. You smell like fermenting garbage."

He froze, then immediately switched to his signature wounded puppy look. Stepping closer, he used his drunkenness as an excuse to bury his chin in my neck, wrapping his arms around my waist.

"Don't be mad. I was practically force-fed drinks to get that endorsement." His voice was coaxing. "My head is killing me. Can you rub it for me, please?"

Before, whenever he showed this kind of vulnerability, I would always soften and let things slide.

But right now, all I could think about was the diagnosis in my pocket.

Expressionless, I pried his fingers off my waist, one by one.

"Don't touch me. Go wash."

His usual trick failing for the first time, his tender facade instantly cracked.

He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, muttered something under his breath, and tossed his phone onto the coffee table, letting go of me.

At that exact second, the screen lit up.

No sender name. Immediately after, his privacy screen filter blacked out the display entirely from my angle.

Not a single trace left behind.

Setting up such a flawless defense against me... he really put a lot of effort into this.

Exhausted from days of traveling, Noah collapsed onto the master bed and instantly fell asleep.

I stayed in the living room, looking at his half-open suitcase on the floor. I sighed out of habit and walked over to sort his dirty laundry.

As I sorted through the alcohol-soaked couture shirts, my fingers accidentally brushed against a hidden compartment at the very bottom of the lining.

The zipper wasn't fully closed, and my fingertip caught on something flimsy. The moment I yanked it out, I froze.

A black lace thong that definitely did not belong to me.

Holding it by its pathetic little string, I strode to the master bedroom and pushed the door wide open.

Without hesitation, I whipped the filthy scrap of fabric right across Noah's sleeping face.

"Open your eyes. Explain to me whose this is."

He jolted awake. The moment his eyes focused on the black lace, the color completely drained from his face.

But he immediately feigned an absurdly innocent, wronged expression.

"Miranda, listen to me! The backstage area at the show was a complete disaster! It must have been my idiot assistant. He probably packed some random model's trash into my bag by mistake!"

While spewing this garbage excuse that couldn't fool a toddler, he reached out to grab my wrist, trying to brush it off with physical affection.

A violent wave of nausea surged up my throat, compounding the deep-seated weakness that had been screaming in my bones all night.

I swallowed down the dizziness and slapped his arm away. "Don't touch me with your filthy hands."

Seeing that I was about to leave, he completely panicked.

Forgetting his shoes, he practically threw himself out of bed, dropping to one knee next to the mattress to block my path, softening his posture to beg:

"Baby, please don't start a fight over this. I'm exhausted from all these events..."

I stared down at him, skipping the bullshit: "Fine. Then next month at the charity gala, I want you to walk the red carpet with me as my official boyfriend."

He sprang up like he'd been burned.

"Are you crazy? I just booked a global top-tier luxury campaign! If I go public with a relationship right now, my career is completely ruined!"

"And what about that blonde model you were trending with yesterday?" I locked onto him. "Sharing a water bottle in a blind spot doesn't affect your career?"

"That was a forced PR stunt by the agency!" he retorted without missing a beat.

Then, softening his eyes, he reached for my hand again. "Just give me one more year, okay? Once I win Actor of the Year, I swear I'll go public with us."

I pulled my gaze away from his hypocritical face and coldly pulled my hand free.

"Noah, I don't have until next year."