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.

Preston read the message and let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

"See?" he said, holding the phone out to Dereck. "Typical. Play dumb. 'Did I do something wrong?' It's a classic deflection."

Dereck took the phone. He stared at the little crying face. It was a good act. A very good act. But it was just an act.

Before he could respond, the phone buzzed again. A new message from MoonCookie.

This time, it wasn't a photo, but another voice memo. He tapped play. Her voice was different from before. The sickness was still there, a faint rasp, but it was layered with a trembling, wounded tone. It was the sound of genuine hurt.

"Daddy... why would you say that?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "It's a horrible thing to say. You're scaring me. Did I do something to make you think I'm not... me? I just... I thought you knew me." Her voice dissolved into a soft, choked sob before the recording ended.

Preston's smirk faltered. He listened to the message again, his brow furrowed. "Okay, that's... better than the last one. She's twisting it. Making it about your trust in her."

It was a masterful counter-attack. She hadn't defended herself with evidence. She hadn't argued. She had simply doubled down on emotional vulnerability. She had taken his attack and twisted it into him being the bad guy, a cruel boyfriend making his poor, sick girlfriend cry.

Dereck didn't say a word. He was listening to the voice memo a third time, focusing on the little hitch in her breath, the genuine-sounding fear.

A strange sensation washed over him. It wasn't pity. Dereck Campos didn't do pity. It was something darker. Something possessive.

He didn't care if she was lying. He didn't care if she was a scammer. The sound of her voice, the manufactured pain-it triggered something deep inside him, a need to control, to protect, to own.

He wanted to be the only one who scared her. He wanted to be the one who made her cry. And he wanted to be the one who made it better.

"That's enough," Dereck said, his voice low.

Preston looked at him, surprised. "What? You're not going to push back?"

"No." Dereck took the phone from Preston's hand. He deleted the "I know who you are" message from the chat, erasing the evidence of his friend's blunder.

He typed a new message, his thumbs moving with absolute authority.

It was a mistake. Forget it. I've ordered a full medical kit and a private nurse to be delivered to you in an hour. Don't open the door for anyone else.

He hit send. It wasn't a request. It was an order. He was taking control. He was fixing the problem he'd let Preston create. And he was putting a boundary around his property.

In New York, Giselle stared at the message. The relief that flooded her system was instantly replaced by a new, sharper terror.

A private nurse. In an hour.

She couldn't let a nurse in. A nurse would see her face. A nurse would see that she wasn't the girl in the photos. A nurse would report back to Dereck Campos, and the game would be over.

She had to refuse. Again. But this time, she couldn't use the "I'm too sick" excuse. He was offering her medical care. She had to find a new angle.

She thought fast, her mind racing through the possibilities. What would a sugar baby hate more than being sick? Being in debt? No. Being obligated?

She started typing.

No! Absolutely not! Daddy, I appreciate you caring about me, but a private nurse is too much! I can't accept something so expensive. It makes me feel... uncomfortable.

She was playing the pride card. The "I'm not a hooker" card. It was a risky move, but it was the only one she had left.

Please, I'm a big girl. I have my medicine now. Just let me rest. If you send anyone, I won't open the door. Please understand.

She hit send, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was betting her life on the idea that a man who was used to women taking his money would be intrigued by one who refused it.