Addicted To His Fake Sugar Baby

The silence from Switzerland stretched on for an eternity. Giselle sat on the edge of her bed, her eyes fixed on the phone, waiting for the verdict. Every second felt like an hour. Every minute a year. In Switzerland, Dereck stared at the phone. He had just read her refusal of the nurse. "She turned down the nurse," he said, his voice flat. Preston, who was pouring himself another whisky, nearly choked. "She what? Are you serious?" "She said it was too expensive. It made her uncomfortable." Preston set the bottle down with a thud. "That's it. She's definitely a pro. No normal girl turns down free medical care from a billionaire. She's playing you, Dereck. She's making you chase her." Dereck didn't respond. He was reading her message again. It makes me feel... uncomfortable. He had never met a woman who was uncomfortable with his money. They all wanted it. They all expected it. They all demanded more. But this one, this MoonCookie, she was pushing him away. He typed a reply. This is not a gift. This is for your health. A thousand miles away, Giselle saw the message pop up. She bit her lip and typed back immediately. To me, it is. Please. I don't want to argue when I'm sick. Dereck stared at the screen. The words were a rejection, but they weren't hostile. They were tired. They were vulnerable. They were exactly what he wanted to hear. He backed down. Fine. Call me if you feel worse. He sent a separate message to his assistant. Cancel the nurse. Preston watched the exchange with his mouth open. "I don't believe it. She just made you back down. Dereck Campos, the most stubborn man on Wall Street, just got manipulated by a catfish." Dereck looked up, a strange light in his eyes. "She's not manipulating me. She's just... different." Preston shook his head, a grim smile on his face. "You're in trouble, my friend. Big trouble." Back in her apartment, the tension drained out of Giselle so fast she felt dizzy. She fell back onto the mattress, her limbs loose and trembling. She had done it. She had told Dereck Campos no, and she had survived. But the victory felt hollow. She looked at the ceiling, the peeling paint and the water stain in the corner. She was still trapped. She was still in debt. And she still had a psychopath breathing down her neck. She couldn't just sit here and wait for the next attack. She had to be proactive. She had to get out from under this debt, one way or another. The next morning, the fever was gone. Giselle woke up with a clear head and a singular focus. She showered, dressed in her most professional outfit—a pair of dark jeans and a crisp white button-down—and headed out the door. The Columbia campus was buzzing with the start of the new semester. Students hurried across the quad, clutching coffees and laptops. Giselle walked with purpose, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She went straight to Butler Library. The massive stone building was a fortress of knowledge, and right now, it was her best hope. She found the student employment office on the second floor and filled out an application for a library assistant position. "Eighteen dollars an hour," the bored student clerk told her. "Ten hours a week max. Fill this out. With your GPA, you'll probably get a call for an interview this afternoon. We're hiring urgently." "I'll take it," Giselle said, quickly completing the form. As promised, her phone rang two hours later, and after a brief, professional interview, she had the job. Next, she went to the engineering building. The bulletin board outside the dean's office was plastered with flyers. She scanned them quickly, rejecting the ones that didn't pay enough or required too much travel. Then she saw it. TUTOR NEEDED. Physics 1200. Must be patient. $50/hr. She ripped the tab with the phone number off the flyer and pulled out her phone. She dialed the number, her voice calm and confident. "Hi, I'm calling about the tutoring position. I'm a junior in the engineering school with a 3.98 GPA. I can start tomorrow." The voice on the other end was a harried-sounding woman. "Thank God. My son is failing. Can you come to our apartment on the Upper East Side on Thursday?" "Absolutely," Giselle said. She hung up and added the appointment to her calendar. She found a quiet corner in the library's reading room and sat down. She pulled out her laptop and opened her spreadsheet. She entered her new income streams, calculating the weekly total. It wasn't much, but it was a start. She reached into her bag and pulled out an apple. It was slightly bruised, the last piece of fruit from the bag she had bought at the farmer's market three days ago. She bit into it, the tart juice a sharp contrast to the dry taste of fear in her mouth. She didn't buy lunch. She didn't buy coffee. She sat in the sun-drenched reading room, eating her apple and planning her future. She was a machine, a calculator, a survivor. She was no longer the scared girl cowering in her apartment. She was Giselle Stephens, and she was going to work her way out of this hell, no matter what it took.