"Wayne, I know you're home!"
"If you don’t open this door, I’ll have them break the lock!"
True to her word, Jordyn did what she said.
But I was already planning to confront her about the filthy rumors she had spread, so I switched on the monitor, got up, and walked to the door.
As soon as I cracked it open, Jordyn shoved her way inside with so much force that I stumbled backward and hit the ground.
I pushed myself up, ignoring the pain in my palm, and stared at her coldly as she barged in like some kind of thug.
“Finally done hiding?” she sneered, her gaze sweeping over the jade ornaments and authentic paintings adorning my living room. The more she saw, the darker her expression became.
“No wonder you never let me upstairs. You were hiding all this filth the whole time.”
I crossed my arms, silent.
She strode over to the desk, picked up the blue-and-white porcelain vase I hadn’t yet had time to put away, and scoffed.
"Looks like a decent replica—but a fake’s still a fake."
Then she pointed at the ink-wash landscape on the wall.
"And that? Probably five dollars at a street market."
I clapped slowly, amused.
“Excellent eye, Miss Ortiz.”
That painting was, in fact, the only fake in the house—a copy I had done in middle school of a master’s work. My mother insisted on treating it like a treasure and hung it right between two genuine pieces.
Jordyn clearly thought I was mocking her. Her expression turned venomous as she snatched a document from her assistant and slapped it onto the coffee table.
“Sign this. I’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars a month.”
I raised an eyebrow and glanced at the contract. It was packed with clauses.
One of them clearly stated I would “willingly serve her and her future husband,” with no right to personal freedom.
What was this?
A slave contract?
Without hesitation, I tore it in half.
But she was unfazed, almost as if she’d expected it. Calmly, she handed over another copy.
“Rip all you want. I’ve got plenty more.” She shrugged. “But I hope you understand one thing—your going rate online is 99.9 dollars a night. Not even a full hundred.”
"I can’t imagine how many clients you’d need to serve just to make ten grand a month."
"Right now, your reputation is in the gutter. If it weren’t for our past, do you really think anyone else would’ve bothered with you?"
When I didn’t immediately rip the second contract, she stepped closer, pinched my chin between her fingers, and said with a smirk, “You love money, don’t you? If you sign this, I’ll buy you the real versions of all these little counterfeits.”
She gestured around the room, clearly confident in her delusion.
I burst out laughing.
I might not know everything about the Ortiz family’s assets, but I knew enough. Even one piece in my house could spark a bidding war.
And she had the audacity to claim she could “buy me the real ones.”
Just as I was about to speak, one of her bodyguards suddenly murmured behind her.
“Miss Ortiz, this porcelain vase looks familiar... isn’t it the centerpiece from that recent Sotheby’s auction?”
Jordyn froze, then picked the blue-and-white porcelain back up, inspecting it more closely.
That vase was a birthday gift from my mother just half a month ago—acquired at Sotheby’s for one hundred twenty million.
I watched as beads of sweat formed on her forehead. Clearly, she was beginning to suspect the truth.
“No way... It can’t be. It has to be a high-end knockoff!”
But then, as if remembering the fact that everything I’d ever gifted her was authentic, her expression faltered. She forced a laugh and said awkwardly,
“Where did you steal this from, Wayne? Or did you sweet-talk some naive rich woman into giving it to you?”
She narrowed her eyes and added sharply, “If I remember correctly, the person who bought this piece was old enough to be your mother...”
I met her scornful gaze with indifference and said flatly, “You guessed right. She is my mother. She gave it to me to use as a vase.”
