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.

Preston was pacing the room, his whisky forgotten. "You need to shut this down. Now. Before it goes any further. This isn't a game, Dereck. This is your life. Your reputation."

Dereck wasn't listening. He was still looking at the phone, his thumb tracing the edge of the screen. The refusal of the nurse had settled into his brain like a splinter. It was irritating, but he couldn't stop picking at it.

A soft knock on the door interrupted Preston's rant.

"Come in," Dereck called.

The door opened and a young woman stepped in. She was pushing a small metal cart filled with medical supplies. She was blonde, with high cheekbones and a figure that was well-defined under her crisp white uniform.

"Mr. Campos," she said, her voice smooth and professional. "Time for your dressing change."

Preston shot Dereck a look that said, I'll leave you to it, and retreated to the window.

The nurse, whose name tag read Anya, moved efficiently around the wheelchair. She prepped a fresh bandage and a vial of antiseptic. Her movements were precise, clinical, yet there was a deliberateness to them that felt rehearsed.

She worked in silence for a moment, her focus entirely on his injured arm. Then, she spoke, her voice a low murmur. "Your recovery is remarkable, Mr. Campos. Most men wouldn't handle this level of discomfort with such... composure."

Dereck sat perfectly still, his face a mask of ice. He didn't react to the compliment. He didn't blink.

Anya misinterpreted his silence. She grew bolder, though her actions remained technically professional. As she secured the new bandage, her fingers lingered on his skin a fraction of a second too long. "It must be frustrating, being confined like this," she continued, her eyes briefly meeting his. "A man of your stature is surely missed in the world."

She straightened up, her gaze sweeping over his chest and shoulders. "But then, I suppose even titans need to rest. I'm on duty until late, so if you need anything at all... for your comfort... just use the call button." The invitation was clear, wrapped in a veneer of professional concern.

Dereck finally moved. He reached up and grabbed her wrist. His grip was like a vise, the pressure sudden and brutal.

Anya gasped, her eyes widening in shock.

"What is your hourly rate?" Dereck asked, his voice calm and cold.

"I... what?" Anya stammered, trying to pull away. But his hand was immovable.

"Your wage," Dereck repeated. "How much do they pay you to solicit patients?"

Anya's face flushed red. "Mr. Campos, I was just-"

"You were just attempting to prostitute yourself to a patient," Dereck said, his voice dropping a degree. "Which is not only pathetic, but a violation of about a dozen medical ethics codes."

He released her wrist and looked at his assistant, who had appeared in the doorway. "Give her ten times her severance pay. And then have her removed from the premises."

The assistant nodded. "Right away, sir."

"And," Dereck added, his eyes never leaving Anya's terrified face, "inform the Swiss Medical Association that Anya Nowakowski is to be blacklisted from all top-tier facilities. Effective immediately."

Anya's face went white. "No! Please! Mr. Campos, I'm sorry! I didn't mean-"

"Get her out of my sight," Dereck said.

Two security guards appeared and escorted the sobbing woman out of the room. The door clicked shut behind them, cutting off her pleas.

The room was silent. A faint, sterile, antiseptic smell lingered in the air. He grabbed a bottle of sanitizer from the cart and scrubbed his hands, trying to erase the phantom touch of her fingers.

Preston watched the whole scene with a mixture of horror and fascination. "Well," he said, breaking the silence. "That was... efficient."

Dereck didn't respond. He was still scrubbing his hands, his jaw clenched tight.

Preston walked over and leaned against the window frame. "You know, I think I finally get it."

"Get what?" Dereck snapped.

"This MoonCookie thing," Preston said, gesturing to the phone. "You hate women like Anya. You hate the ones who throw themselves at you, who want your money, your power. You've been surrounded by them your whole life."

He paused, letting the words sink in. "But this girl, this catfish, she's the opposite. She's rejecting you. She's refusing your money. She's the one woman in the world who isn't trying to get into your bed."

Dereck stopped scrubbing. He looked at his red, raw hands, then at the phone on the table. The photo of the scraped knuckles flashed in his mind.

"She's the exception," Preston said softly. "And you can't stand it. You can't stand that there's someone out there who doesn't want you."

Dereck didn't confirm or deny it. He just picked up the phone and slipped it into his pocket. But the seed had been planted. The reason for his obsession was no longer a mystery. It was a challenge.

And Dereck Campos never backed down from a challenge.