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.

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.