Chapter 1: Designer Lies and Dangerous Games

Every time I was with my sugar daddy, I’d keep up my gold-digger act by playing coy and asking him to buy me something designer—usually bags or shoes, sometimes even dropping a brand name just to see if he’d flinch.

Sometimes I’d scroll through Instagram right in front of him, double-tapping the most outrageous posts from luxury accounts, or flip through a glossy magazine just for the old-school effect, circling whatever caught my eye. It was part of our routine—me fluttering my lashes, him acting annoyed, the air between us practically buzzing with the game.

That’s when he’d sneer and start teasing me all over again, pushing my buttons until I was totally spent. I’d end up softly begging him to stop, breathless, every nerve raw.

It was always this push and pull—a power play where I pretended to have the upper hand, but he never let me forget who was really in control. My voice would go breathless, laughter fading into pleading. The city lights outside the window blurred into a haze. Was I ever really in charge? Sometimes, I wondered if he liked hearing me ask him to stop, just to see if I’d really mean it.

Only then would he flick a credit card onto the pillow next to me, the motion smooth and practiced.

The card always landed with a soft thud, like a final period at the end of a sentence. Sometimes he’d smirk, sometimes he’d barely glance my way, as if the whole thing was just another transaction—business as usual in his penthouse suite.

Back to business. One day, after he left, I picked up the card and asked the system, “Is that new intern of his waiting in his office?”

The card was cold and impersonal in my hand. I kept my voice low, just in case the empty room had ears. There was something about asking the system questions that always made me feel like I was talking to a ghost.

The system’s voice came back, flat and robotic as ever: “Yes, they’ll have a candlelight dinner together tonight. Host, your current stage task is complete. Please move on to the next target.” As always, the system sounded like it was reading from a script.

That voice never changed, no matter how many times I tried to catch it off guard. It was like talking to a vending machine. Still, the words stung a little more tonight. Candlelight dinner? Really? He’d never done that for me.

“W-wait…”

I shoved Carter Ashford away, weakly glaring at him.

My hands trembled a little, but I tried to make my glare convincing, even though I could barely keep my eyes open. The room smelled faintly of his cologne and the sheets beneath me—probably cost more than my rent.

His voice was a little rough, with a dark edge. “Didn’t you want that necklace? What, can’t keep up now?”

He always knew exactly how to push my buttons. The way he said it made my cheeks flush, a mix of embarrassment and something else I didn’t want to name. I hated how well he read me.

As he spoke, he dropped a soft kiss on my cheek.

His lips lingered for a heartbeat, warm against my skin.

For a second, I almost forgot the script.

Almost let myself believe he meant it.

But then he pulled away, and the moment was gone.

I don’t know how much time passed…

Time got weird. The minutes blurred together, the city outside slipping from dusk to night. I could hear the distant hum of traffic, the occasional honk of a horn, but it all felt far away. All that mattered was the ache in my body and the heaviness in my chest.

Suddenly, I gripped Carter’s shoulders tight.

My nails dug into his shirt, desperate for something solid. I didn’t want to let go, not yet, not while I could still pretend this meant something.

He chuckled quietly, his fingertips wiping away the tears at the corners of my eyes.

He always noticed. Always made a show of brushing them away. Sometimes I wondered if he actually cared, or if it was just part of the act. Either way, I let him.

In the end, I was exhausted, closing my eyes to block out the world.

I let myself drift, letting the darkness swallow me up. For a moment, I could pretend I was somewhere else—anywhere but here, playing this endless game.

Satisfied, Carter took a shower and changed. While fixing his cufflinks, he glanced at me. “What necklace did you say you wanted again?”

I watched him from beneath heavy eyelids, the steam from his shower still curling around the bathroom door. He looked so put-together, so untouchable. I almost laughed.

My voice was barely a whisper, but I couldn’t resist messing with him: “…One of those couture pieces, you know? The kind that goes for, like, a million.”

I tried to sound casual, like I asked for million-dollar jewelry every day. I waited for his reaction, half-expecting him to roll his eyes or call my bluff.

He tossed the credit card onto my pillow. “Buy ten.”

The card spun once before landing. My mouth fell open, and for a second, I wondered if he was serious. Then I realized—of course he was. With Carter, money was just another way to keep score.

With Carter, money was just another way to keep score.

I blinked.

For a heartbeat, I just stared at the card, my mind racing. Was this real life? Was this really me, living out every broke girl’s fantasy? I almost laughed, but the sound stuck in my throat.

Suddenly, my back didn’t hurt so much, and my legs didn’t feel like jelly anymore.

It’s funny how the promise of a little retail therapy can work wonders. I sat up straighter, stretching my legs out and flexing my toes, the pain replaced by a sudden rush of adrenaline.

After tossing the card, Carter didn’t say anything else. As he was leaving, I called out in a hoarse voice, “You’re not having dinner with me tonight?”

My voice cracked, and I hated that it sounded so needy. I tried to play it cool, but the question hung in the air between us, heavier than I wanted to admit.

He replied offhandedly, “Something came up at the office. If you want to eat at any steakhouse or whatever, have Melissa make a reservation.”

He didn’t even look back, just straightened his tie and checked his watch. Melissa—his assistant, the one with the sensible heels—always handled the details. I wondered if she knew about all the girls Carter kept on a string.

Melissa is his assistant.

She’s the kind of woman who always wears sensible heels and never lets her hair down, but somehow knows everyone’s secrets. I’d seen her give me a knowing look more than once.

I didn’t say anything.

I bit my lip, listening to the click of his shoes fading down the hall. The silence that followed felt too big for the room.

It wasn’t until I heard the door close that I struggled to sit up and picked up the credit card.

I ran my thumb along the numbers, the embossed letters catching the light. Black Amex. Unlimited. Like holding a golden ticket—except I already knew what waited at the end.

I asked the system, “Is that intern of his waiting in his office?”

I kept my tone flat, trying to sound like I didn’t care. But inside, my stomach twisted. I pictured Carter and that intern, laughing over candlelight, sharing inside jokes I’d never hear.

The system’s cold voice echoed, “Yes, they’ll have a candlelight dinner together tonight. Host, your current stage task is complete. Please move on to the next target.”

Even the system sounded bored. I wondered if it ever got tired of watching me play the same role over and over.

I let out a soft sigh and laughed quietly:

It was the kind of laugh that gets stuck in your chest, more bitter than amused. If anyone had seen me then, sprawled on a king-size bed in a penthouse suite, they’d think I had it made. But the joke was always on me.

“System, honestly, this gold-digger persona really suits me, doesn’t it? I eat well and get paid.”

I said it with a smirk, half-mocking, half-accepting. It was easier to lean into the stereotype than to fight it. At least the food was good, and the paychecks never bounced.

Except nobody cares.

I looked around the empty room, the city lights twinkling outside, and felt the truth settle in my bones. No one cared, not really. The world kept spinning, and I was just another pretty face in someone else’s story.

But all I want is money, not love.

I repeated it to myself like a mantra, a shield against the ache that threatened to creep in. Love was messy, unpredictable. Money was simple. Clean. Safe.

The system ignored me, its tone as flat as ever: “Target number two is the heroine’s stepbrother. Please complete the task today.”

There was never any warmth in that voice. Just instructions, deadlines, and a list of targets. Sometimes I wondered if the system was the only thing in my life that would never lie to me.

I froze for a second, caught off guard.

The words hung in the air, and for a split second, I forgot how to breathe. My mind scrambled to catch up, to remember the next step in the plan.

After a moment, I asked, “Um… Where is he now?”

I tried to keep my voice steady, but it wavered at the end. I hated that the system could always hear my nerves.

“At The Avalon Club.”

The name sounded familiar, a place where the city’s young and reckless liked to play. I’d been there once or twice, always as someone’s plus-one, never quite fitting in with the regulars.

Wearing a short skirt and low heels, legs still a little shaky, I headed to the address the system gave me.

I checked my reflection in the hallway mirror before leaving—lipstick still perfect, hair a little wild, but it worked. My legs wobbled as I walked, but I forced myself to move with purpose. If anyone noticed, they’d just think I’d had one too many drinks.

The sky was getting dark, city lights flickering on one by one.

The city glowed with neon and headlights, the kind of night that promised trouble. I wrapped my jacket tighter around me, the air humming with possibility and danger.

After entering the club, I took the elevator and pressed the top floor button, but nothing happened.

I jabbed the button again, frustration bubbling up. The elevator music was some jazzy tune, too cheerful for my mood. I glanced at the mirrored walls, trying to look unfazed.

The guy who got in with me crossed his arms, looked me up and down, and spoke lazily, “Trying to get to the penthouse? Which friend brought you here?”

His voice was smooth, practiced—someone who’d seen a hundred girls like me. He leaned against the wall, watching me like I was the evening’s entertainment.

I took a step back, eyeing him warily. Of course. Some people just can’t help themselves.

His gaze was direct, almost daring me to flinch. I tried to hold my ground, but my pulse kicked up a notch. I’d met his type before—cocky, dangerous, and way too charming for their own good.

His hair was dyed a striking silver, his eyes half-lidded and mischievous.

It was the kind of look that said he didn’t care what anyone thought. The silver made him stand out, even in a crowd of trust-fund kids and wannabe celebrities.

Seeing me retreat, he leaned in a little, getting closer. “Or… are you looking to hook up with a trust-fund baby?”

He grinned, his breath warm against my ear. The question hung between us, equal parts accusation and invitation. I rolled my eyes, refusing to answer.

His tone wasn’t exactly friendly.

There was an edge to it, like he was waiting for me to slip up. I could tell he was used to people playing games, and he liked to play rough.

I pressed my lips together, still not saying a word.

I kept my eyes fixed on the elevator buttons, counting down the seconds until the ride was over. Silence was safer than giving him anything to work with.

He laughed, reached his arm past me, swiped his card, and pressed the penthouse button.

The movement was smooth, practiced. I watched his reflection in the mirrored wall, surprised by the sudden gesture. Was he helping me out, or just showing off?

I looked at him in surprise.

He caught my eye, his grin widening. There was something almost boyish about it, despite the sharpness in his gaze.

He whistled, the note ending with a playful lilt. “If you don’t find anyone you like, remember to come find me.” Of course he’d say something like that.

He looked familiar; I must’ve seen him before when I was with Carter Ashford.

Maybe at one of Carter’s endless parties, or in the background of some Instagram story. He had the look of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere at once.

Guys like him? Always surrounded by girls. No wonder he didn’t remember me.

I shrugged inwardly, reminding myself not to take it personally. In his world, girls came and went like the changing seasons.

The elevator reached the penthouse, and the doors slid open.

A wave of music and laughter spilled in, the scent of expensive whiskey and perfume filling the air. The penthouse was packed, bodies moving in and out of shadow, everyone dressed to impress. The music thumped, the heat of bodies pressed together, perfume and cologne swirling through the air.

There were a lot of people. Someone recognized the guy beside me and came over to greet him, their eyes sweeping over me as they all laughed, “Lucky again, huh? New girl already?”

The teasing was good-natured, but there was an undercurrent of competition. I smiled politely, pretending not to notice the way they sized me up.

Everyone burst out laughing.

The laughter was loud, echoing off the marble floors. I felt like I’d stepped onto a stage, everyone watching to see what I’d do next.

The guy shrugged. “Don’t start, she’s not here for me.”

He said it with a wink, but his tone made it clear he didn’t want to be the center of attention tonight. I appreciated the save, even if it was just for show.

I scanned the crowd, searching for my second target.

My eyes darted from face to face, looking for the telltale signs—the sharp jawline, the expensive watch, the air of someone who’d never had to work for anything. The pressure built in my chest, adrenaline mixing with nerves.

My mind raced. How could I finish the task tonight?

I mentally reviewed the system’s instructions, weighing my options. I needed to be bold, but not reckless. Timing was everything.

When I spotted Miles Bennett, my heart skipped a beat and a plan formed.

He stood by the window, half in shadow, looking out over the city like he owned it. Something about the set of his shoulders told me he was bored—and that was my opening.

I suddenly grabbed the guy’s arm in front of me and whispered, “I looked around and didn’t find anyone I liked. How about I hook up with you?”

I pitched my voice low, leaning in close enough for only him to hear. I felt his muscles tense under my hand, surprise flickering across his face.

He raised his eyebrows, surprised.

For a second, he seemed at a loss for words, and I almost laughed. It was rare to catch a guy like him off guard.

After a moment, he snorted and said to his friends, “She’s with me now.”

He said it like it was no big deal, but I could see the pride in his eyes. His friends shot us knowing looks, some jealous, some amused.

Then, I took his arm.

I pressed myself against his side, playing the part of the clingy girlfriend. Might as well sell it.

He handed me a glass of wine. “Coming here alone, you’re easy pickings for the wolves.”

He handed me the glass with a practiced ease, swirling the wine as if to punctuate his warning. The way he said it made me wonder if he counted himself among the wolves.

But he sounded casual about it.

His tone was light, almost dismissive. I could tell he didn’t actually care what happened to me—he just liked the drama.

People who come here alone aren’t afraid of wolves—they’re just afraid there aren’t any.

“What about you?” I smiled.

I tilted my head, giving him my best flirty grin. Two could play this game.

“Me?” He took a slow sip of wine. “What do you think?”