Chapter 3

When I returned to the office that afternoon, Isabella acted as though nothing had happened.

She was even more conspicuous than usual.

She carried several shopping bags from Fifth Avenue and deliberately walked past my desk.

"Celestine." She stopped and set the bags down. "You were out for so long at lunch. How come you didn't buy anything?"

I stopped typing and glanced at the brand-new shopping bags.

Even the ribbons around the packaging had been tied with almost desperate precision, practically screaming that she was trying to prove something.

"People buy things because they need them, not to put on a show." I leaned back in my chair, completely indifferent.

Her lips twitched, but she quickly lifted her chin.

"A woman has to be willing to invest in herself. Look."

She pulled an expensive-looking jewelry box from one of the bags.

"Casper felt terrible that I couldn't video call him this morning because of my skin. He transferred fifty thousand dollars to me."

"Fifty thousand?"

Several coworkers instinctively looked over, their eyes widening.

Isabella smiled smugly.

"He said girls should be spoiled. He told me to pick whatever I like."

I watched this pathetic performance coldly without saying a word.

That same man had been aggressively demanding that she turn on her camera that morning, and now he had suddenly become generous enough to transfer fifty thousand dollars?

Casper—the debt-ridden con artist who borrowed money from everyone he could find just to keep up appearances with luxury cars and expensive watches—could never have fifty thousand dollars in cash.

It could only be a bounced check that would get rejected by the bank in a few days, or perhaps she had simply maxed out her own credit cards to keep the illusion alive.

Two people living on lies, desperately using laughable stakes to keep up appearances.

Isabella picked up a small cardholder and held it out to me.

"This is for you."

I glanced at it.

The packaging was cheap, the hardware looked flimsy, and even the logo was crooked.

It was obviously a knockoff.

I didn't take it.

"Thanks. I don't need it."

Her smile stiffened.

"Why do you have to be so rude?"

"I don't need one."

She bit her lip, finally unable to hold back and getting to the point.

She lowered her voice.

"About what I asked this morning... You really can't help me? You'd only have to meet him once..."

"No."

"If you help me, I can give you a really valuable designer bag—"

"You love Casper so much," I interrupted, my eyes cold. "Then don't use someone else's photos and face to test him. Or have you finally realized that you don't measure up to the socialite persona you invented?"

Her expression shattered instantly.

"Celestine, aren't you just putting on airs because of your family trust fund?" she suddenly shouted.

The entire office went quiet for a moment.

It was as if I had hit a nerve.

She glared at me with reddened eyes.

"What are you so proud of? Do you really think every man is going to like you?!"

I calmly watched her make a fool of herself.

"At least I don't have to steal someone else's photos to prove I'm pretty."

Her face went deathly pale.

Her lips trembled.

I leaned forward, my voice low but cutting.

"Isabella. I warned you. Don't touch my photos again."

She stared at me.

After several seconds, instead of exploding again, she pulled an unsettlingly strange smile.

"Fine. I won't."

Then she turned and returned to her desk.

But after that day, she became strangely quiet.

Over the next few days, she stopped openly begging me for help and started playing dirty instead.

During quick meetings, she pretended to photograph the whiteboard while actually pointing the camera at me.

In the break room, she would pretend to take selfies while deliberately including my profile in the background.

In my previous life, I would have smashed her phone on the spot and had HR fire her.

But now, I simply looked at her coldly and pretended not to notice.

Because I knew those photos weren't just about feeding her vanity.

She was providing that increasingly impatient Casper with "fresh material"—the newest photos of me, complete with the setting and even the fact that they had been taken during work hours.

Perfect.

Keep going.

Send him my photos.

Let him see them.

Let him sink deeper and deeper.

Let the two people hiding behind their screens believe they were both about to get exactly what they wanted.

Until Friday night in the underground parking garage.

I worked until ten that night to revise a crisis PR statement.

The building's underground VIP parking area was deserted, its fluorescent lights harsh and glaring.

The sound of my heels echoed hollowly through the empty garage.

I had just reached my Porsche when a tall shadow suddenly lunged out from behind me.

Before I could turn around, two rough hands grabbed me from behind and held me tightly.

The overpowering smell of cheap cologne mixed with stale cigarette smoke flooded my nose.

"Baby, I finally caught you at your office."

The man's hot, heavy breath brushed against my ear, his voice greasy and disgusting.

"Baby, you smell so good. You were so bold online, so why are you suddenly so quiet? Come here and let me kiss you."