Addicted To His Fake Sugar Baby
While packing up her cheating ex-boyfriend's belongings, Giselle found an encrypted black smartphone hidden beneath his old textbooks.
Curiosity made her guess the passcode, only to uncover a horrifying secret.
Her ex had been using stolen lingerie photos of her beautiful roommate to catfish a man named "Oero" out of $1.5 million.
And Oero wasn't just a gullible sugar daddy. He was Dereck Campos, a ruthless Wall Street billionaire known for making his enemies permanently disappear.
The phone suddenly buzzed in her hand with a terrifying message.
"Don't be late. You know what happens when I'm kept waiting."
Giselle's blood ran cold. The lethal trap had snapped shut.
If she showed up, Dereck would see she wasn't the blonde in the photos and kill her.
If she ignored him, his private security would hunt her down anyway.
Her ex had drained the offshore accounts and fled, leaving her as the ultimate scapegoat to face a monster's wrath.
She was just a broke engineering student on a full scholarship.
She hadn't taken a single cent of that dirty money. Why should she pay with her life for a deadly scam she knew nothing about?
But Giselle wasn't going to just curl up and wait to die.
Her analytical mind kicked into overdrive. She sent him a voice note faking a severe illness, and deliberately refused his massive cash transfer to play the proud victim.
She was going to outsmart the most dangerous predator in New York, one calculated lie at a time.
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Chapter 4
The spreadsheet stared back at her, the blinking cursor in cell A1 a mocking reminder of her situation. Giselle took a deep breath and typed the number. $1,530,000. The sum of the wire transfers she could find in the chat history. The number looked obscene in black and white.
She moved to the next row. Assets. She listed them quickly. Columbia Engineering Full Scholarship. Proficient in Python, C++, MATLAB. Fluent in English, Spanish, and French. 3.98 GPA.
She stared at the list. It wasn't money, but it was capital. It was the only kind she had.
She opened the Columbia University student job portal. Her eyes scanned the listings, her brain automatically filtering out the low-paying campus jobs. She needed speed, not convenience.
Research Assistant, Quantum Computing Lab. $25/hr. Too time-consuming.
Library Desk Attendant, Butler Library. $18/hr. Steady, flexible.
Private Tutor, Physics 1200. $50/hr. This was it.
She jotted the details down in her notebook. Applying online would take too long; she would apply for them in person tomorrow to ensure she got the positions immediately.
She calculated the hours. It would take her years to pay off the debt at this rate. Decades. But it was a trajectory. It was a plan.
She closed the laptop and leaned back in her chair, a tiny sliver of control returning to her chest. She was no longer just a victim. She was a debtor. And debtors could work their way out.
The view from the penthouse suite at Clinique La Prairie was a wall of white. The Swiss Alps stood like frozen giants against the azure sky, but Dereck Campos wasn't looking at them. He was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, his left arm in a complex brace, his face a mask of bored frustration.
A month. He had been stuck in this glorified sanatorium for a month, recovering from a skiing accident that should have killed him. The only thing keeping him entertained was the small, black device in his hand.
His assistant, a man in a perfectly tailored suit who looked more like a secret service agent than a paper-pusher, approached the wheelchair.
"Sir," the assistant said, his voice low and respectful. "There was an issue with the wire transfer from the Cayman account. It was rejected and returned."
Dereck looked up, one eyebrow raised slightly. "Rejected?"
"Yes, sir. The recipient declined the funds."
Dereck took the phone. He scrolled through the chat history, reading the messages from the previous night. The whining voice memo. The photo of the bruised, red hand. The refusal of the doctor and the driver.
He played the voice memo again. The girl's voice was a fragile, breathy whisper, thick with congestion and something else. Fear? Or just a really good act?
He looked at the photo. The skin on her knuckles was scraped raw, the tiny smears of blood stark against the pale skin. It was a nice touch. Most scammers wouldn't go that far for authenticity.
"She refused the money," Dereck said, his voice a low rumble.
"Yes, sir."
"And the driver?"
"She explicitly stated she would not open the door for him."
Dereck leaned back in his chair, a strange sensation stirring in his chest. It wasn't concern. He didn't care about this girl. She was a thief, a catfish using another woman's photos. He had known that from the beginning. Carleigh Ramsey's face was famous in certain circles.
"Run a check on Carleigh Ramsey," he said. "Columbia student. I want her schedule and her current location."
The assistant nodded and stepped away. Dereck continued to stare at the photo of the hand. It was a small hand. Delicate. It didn't look like the hand of a calculating grifter.
The assistant returned a few minutes later. "Miss Ramsey is currently in the Hamptons. Her social media shows her at a party at a nightclub last night. She appears to be quite healthy."
Dereck's lips curled into a thin, cold smile. So, the girl in the apartment, the one with the fever and the scraped knuckles, was not the girl in the photos.
Someone else was playing MoonCookie.
A scammer who didn't want money. A liar who refused help. A thief who acted like a prude. It was a contradiction. And Dereck hated contradictions.
He tapped the screen, pulling up the chat window. He wasn't angry. He was intrigued. This wasn't a simple shakedown anymore. This was a game. And he was just starting to realize he had a new opponent.
"Find out who is behind that account," Dereck said, his voice soft and dangerous. "Not the face. The person typing."
He looked out at the snow-capped peaks, but he wasn't seeing them. He was seeing the raw, red knuckles. He was hearing the desperate, little cough. He was going to find her. And when he did, he was going to take her apart piece by piece, until he understood exactly what she was after.
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7.7
My husband, Bennett, and I were New York's golden couple. But our perfect marriage was a lie, childless because of a rare genetic condition he claimed would kill any woman who carried his baby. When his dying father demanded an heir, Bennett proposed a solution: a surrogate.
The woman he chose, Aria, was a younger, more vibrant version of me. Suddenly, Bennett was always busy, supporting her through "difficult IVF cycles." He missed my birthday. He forgot our anniversary.
I tried to believe him, until I overheard him at a party. He confessed to his friends that his love for me was a "deep connection," but with Aria, it was "fire" and "exhilarating."
He was planning a secret wedding with her in Lake Como, at the same villa he'd promised me for our anniversary.
He was giving her a wedding, a family, a life—all the things he denied me, using a lie about a deadly genetic condition as his excuse. The betrayal was so complete it felt like a physical shock.
When he came home that night, lying about a business trip, I smiled and played the part of the loving wife.
He didn't know I'd heard everything.
He didn't know that while he was planning his new life, I was already planning my escape.
And he certainly didn't know I had just made a call to a service that specialized in one thing: making people disappear.
9.3
Chandler was the secret wife of Avery Osborn, a powerful media heir who kept their marriage hidden to avoid the scandal of her illegitimate birth.
After catching him openly flirting with a rival at a gala, Avery mocked her low status and told her she was nothing without his money.
Instead of crying, Chandler immediately signed a zero-payout divorce agreement, left her wedding ring on his glass table, and walked out.
To numb the pain of her shattered life, she went to a notorious underground club.
Drugged by a bartender, she lost her mind and ended up having a wild night with a handsome stranger she mistook for a high-end male escort.
Panicking the next morning, Chandler transferred her entire life savings of $50,000 to the man to buy his silence, then fled to her corporate job.
But at the afternoon executive meeting, her blood ran cold.
The man she had paid off was standing at the head of the boardroom table. He wasn't a gigolo. He was Brennan George, the ruthless new COO of her company.
Cornering her in the women's restroom, Brennan held up a printed copy of her $50,000 wire transfer.
"Wiring a massive sum of cash to your direct superior after a night together is classified as commercial bribery and solicitation," he whispered dangerously.
Chandler was terrified, realizing she had handed him the exact evidence needed to destroy her career and sue her into bankruptcy.
"Marry me," Brennan demanded coldly. "It's the only way to make this HR problem disappear."
8.0
I sat at a table for two in the center of Le Coucou, clutching a gift box that had cost me two months of savings. It was our three-year anniversary, and I was waiting for Gavin to finally ask the big question.
But when the heavy oak doors opened, Gavin didn't walk toward me with a ring. He walked in with a polished blonde heiress tucked under his arm, her hand resting protectively over a small baby bump.
"This is Tiffany Stone. My fiancée," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. He didn't apologize for being late or for the three years we'd spent together. Instead, he pulled out a checkbook, scribbled a number, and slid a ten-thousand-dollar check across the white tablecloth.
"Consider it severance for your time," he added, as Tiffany mocked my cheap drugstore dress. "Don't contact me again. Tiffany doesn't need the stress." I was the entertainment for the entire restaurant—the pathetic girl dumped for a better model. By the time I walked out into the rain, I had lost my boyfriend, my home, and the funding for my secret medical research project.
I was an orphan with no safety net, facing an eviction notice and a ruined career. I had given Gavin everything, and he had discarded me like a broken tool. The injustice burned in my chest, a hot, sharp rage that replaced my tears.
Desperate and freezing, I ducked into a coffee shop where I met Colton Bentley, a reclusive billionaire in a wheelchair. After I defended him from a cruel date, he offered me a contract: a marriage of convenience and a seven-figure payment to act as his shield. I signed the papers that night, ready to use his wealth to rebuild my life. But as I watched my new husband navigate his penthouse, I noticed his "paralyzed" legs tense with a strength that shouldn't exist.
9.6
My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend.
From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down."
That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny.
But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded.
I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said."
Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off."
My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers.
I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal.
Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing.
As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury.
In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho."
How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me?
Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault?
Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred?
I would not be his victim.
Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done.
I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties.
This was not an escape; this was my rebirth.
Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.
8.6
Since returning to her family, Evelyn had never truly been accepted or treated as their own daughter.
On her wedding day, her parents chose her adopted sister over her, and the man she was supposed to marry abandoned her on the highway for his true love without even looking back once.
Heartbroken but resolute, she tore off her veil and stood before his rival. "I dare you to steal the bride."
Shane met her gaze. "Why wouldn't I?"
Their impulsive marriage shocked everyone. Her ex later begged, "Give me another chance."
Shane pulled her close, his voice cold. "Too late. She's my wife now."
7.7
Jaclyn woke up in the sterile hospital room after falling down the stairs. The nurse delivered the devastating news: she had bled heavily and lost her baby.
But before she could even cry, her trusted cousins, Katelyn and Cherri, locked the door and revealed the horrifying truth.
"It wasn't an accident," Katelyn smirked, pinning Jaclyn's arm down. "The lubricant on the top step was a very deliberate choice."
They needed her broken and unstable. They had forged her signature, draining her massive trust fund to save their uncle's bankrupt business.
What shattered Jaclyn's world was the fresh hickey on Cherri's neck. Her lover, Bradford, had helped plan the entire murder.
When Jaclyn tried to scream, they smothered her with a pillow, framing her as a lunatic having a mental breakdown.
Two weeks later, when she confronted them, Bradford violently shoved her through a second-story glass window to silence her forever.
As she fell to her death, the husband she had spent her life hating—the ruthless billionaire Gaines—burst through the doors.
He threw himself forward, his face filled with pure terror, desperately trying to catch her.
When her body hit the stone patio, Gaines fell to his knees in her blood, weeping and begging her not to close her eyes.
Until her last breath, Jaclyn was consumed by suffocating regret. Why did she trust the monsters who killed her, and hate the only man who truly loved her?
Opening her eyes again, she was back in the penthouse, exactly one month into her marriage with Gaines.