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.

Dereck was still staring at the phone when the door to the suite swung open. He didn't look up. The only person who would dare enter without knocking was the only person he tolerated.

Preston Shaw-Huxley sauntered into the room, a whirlwind of Savile Row tailoring and arrogant charm. He was already heading for the mini-bar, pulling out a bottle of Macallan 25 as if he owned the place. Which, in a way, his family almost did.

"What's the face for?" Preston asked, pouring a generous measure into a crystal tumbler. "You look like a kid who found a bug in his soup."

Dereck didn't answer. He just held out the phone.

Preston took it, his eyes scanning the screen. He read the messages, his expression shifting from amusement to disbelief. He played the voice memo, letting the raspy "Daddy" fill the silent room.

"Seriously?" Preston set the phone down on the coffee table with a clatter. "This is what's got you brooding? A catfish?"

"She refused a hundred and fifty thousand dollars," Dereck said flatly.

"She what?" Preston picked the phone up again, scrolling back through the chat. He read the refusal, his eyebrows climbing higher and higher. "Okay, now I know this is a scam. A good one, but still a scam."

He dropped onto the sofa opposite Dereck, swirling the whisky in his glass. "This is textbook PUA stuff, Dereck. Step one: establish the innocent, sick-girl persona. Step two: reject the money to make yourself seem different from all the other gold-diggers. Step three: make him feel guilty for doubting you. It's straight out of the internet playbook."

Dereck watched his friend, his expression unreadable. "You think it's an act."

"I know it's an act," Preston said, taking a sip of his drink. "Come on, man. This isn't you. You're Dereck Campos. You eat people like this for breakfast. You're just bored because you're stuck in this bed."

"Maybe," Dereck said, his voice noncommittal.

Preston leaned forward, his eyes suddenly serious. "You're not actually falling for this, are you? You forgot what happened with Lydia?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Dereck's hand, resting on the arm of the wheelchair, tightened into a fist. The knuckles went white.

Preston immediately held up a hand. "Shit. Sorry. I shouldn't have-forget I said that."

The silence stretched, thick and toxic. The name Lydia was a landmine, and Preston had just stepped on it. Lydia, who had smiled and lied and stolen. Lydia, who had turned Dereck into the cold, cynical bastard he was today, long before the accident that confined him to this wheelchair.

"Look," Preston said, his tone softer now, placating. "I'm just looking out for you. You're in a vulnerable state. You're isolated. It's the perfect setup for a con. Just let the legal team handle it. One letter from our lawyers, one trace on the IP address, and this 'MoonCookie' will be exposed in a few hours."

It was the logical solution. It was the Dereck Campos solution. A quick, surgical strike to remove the annoyance.

But Dereck didn't want to remove the annoyance. He wanted to play with it.

"No," he said. "That's boring."

Preston stared at him. "Boring? Since when do you care about boring? You're a results guy."

"I want to see where this goes," Dereck said, his eyes fixed on the phone. "She's different."

"Different how?" Preston scoffed. "Because she's playing hard to get? That's the oldest trick in the book!"

But even as he said it, Preston could see the change in his friend's eyes. It was a spark, a flicker of the obsessive, driven maniac who could dismantle a Fortune 500 company before lunch. Dereck wasn't just curious. He was fixated.

"Fine," Preston said, standing up and draining his glass. "If you won't end it, I will."

He walked over and snatched the phone off the table. "I'm going to test your little MoonCookie. I'm going to push a button and see if she squeaks or squawks."

Dereck didn't move to stop him. He just watched, a faint, predatory smile touching his lips. "Go ahead."

Preston looked at the screen, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He wasn't going to play nice. He was going to hit her with a sledgehammer. He was going to scare the truth out of this con artist, no matter what it took.

Preston stared at the screen, his jaw set. He was done playing games. This girl-this scammer-was trying to sink her claws into his friend, and he wasn't going to let it happen.

He typed the message quickly, hitting send before he could second-guess himself.

I know who you really are.

It was a bluff. A shot in the dark. But it was the kind of blunt-force trauma that shattered composure. He handed the phone back to Dereck. "Watch. She'll panic. She'll make a mistake."

Dereck took the phone, his eyes on the screen, waiting.

A thousand miles away, in a small apartment in Morningside Heights, Giselle was staring at her laptop. She had just finished a practice test for her Advanced Thermodynamics class, her brain feeling like mush. She needed a shower and a solid eight hours of sleep.

Then the phone buzzed.

It wasn't the usual gentle vibration. It was a harsh, insistent buzz that seemed to rattle the glass of water on her nightstand. She picked it up, her heart already starting to pound.

The message was from Oero. It was short, just one line.

I know who you really are.

The room tilted. Giselle's vision narrowed to a single point of light-the screen. The words blurred, then sharpened, each letter a tiny dagger.

He knew. He knew she wasn't Carleigh. He knew she wasn't MoonCookie. He knew her name, her address, her social security number. He knew she was a fraud.

Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. The walls of the apartment seemed to be closing in, the air growing thin. She was going to pass out. She was going to die. The man who made people disappear from the docks was coming for her.

She dropped the phone. It hit the floor with a clatter, the screen still glowing. She wrapped her arms around her knees, rocking back and forth, her whole body shaking. The fear was a physical weight, crushing her chest, making it impossible to breathe.

He knows. He knows. He knows.

The thought repeated like a mantra, a death knell. She was finished. She should pack a bag. She should run. She should-

Wait.

The engineer in her, the logical, problem-solving part of her brain, forced its way through the panic. She stopped rocking. She stared at the phone on the floor.

Think, she commanded herself. Analyze the data.

The message was vague. "I know who you really are." It didn't say, "I know you're Giselle Stephens." It didn't say, "I know you're not Carleigh." It was a generic threat. A fishing expedition.

If he really knew, he wouldn't be texting. He would be sending his driver, or the police, or a hitman. He was trying to get her to confess. He was bluffing.

She picked up the phone, her fingers trembling so badly she nearly dropped it again. She had to be careful. One wrong word and the trap would snap shut. If she asked, "What do you mean?" or "How did you find out?" she was admitting guilt.

She had to play dumb. She had to be MoonCookie, the silly, spoiled girl who didn't understand why her boyfriend was being mean.

She started typing, erasing and retyping every word. Daddy, what are you talking about? Of course you know who I am. I'm your MoonCookie. Did I do something wrong? :(

She added the crying emoji for good measure. It was the perfect defense. It was innocent, it was confused, and it turned the accusation back on him. It made him the bad guy for scaring his poor, sick girlfriend.

She hit send. The message whooshed away.

She threw the phone onto the bed and backed away, wrapping her arms around herself. She had made her move. Now all she could do was wait for the executioner's reply.