Lewis Delgado, the prince of the Capital's elite circle, kept me for three years. Everyone in our world said I was his dog.
The day his first love came back from abroad, he told me to get lost. I did more than get lost—I handed him a thick stack of documents on my way out.
Lewis assumed it was a letter of remorse. He opened it with a sneer, but the smile froze on his face.
It was an itemized Emotional Services Invoice covering the past one thousand and ninety-five days:
"Hand-holding fee: $5,000/instance. Drink-blocking fee: $20,000/bottle. Faking orgasms: $100,000/includes performance premium."
I extended my hand, calm and composed. "Mr. Delgado, settle the balance, and we're even."
Lewis's eyes went red. He tore the document to shreds. "Abigail Fox, did you not have one ounce of sincerity in this house?"
I pulled out a calculator, genuinely puzzled. "Sincerity? That's a separate line item. You never purchased it, Mr. Delgado."
——
The moment his fingers loosened, the scraps drifted down like snowflakes.
"Abigail. Three years in this house. I treated you so well, and you turned it into a transaction?"
His voice ground out through clenched teeth, vibrating with disbelief and fury.
"Mr. Delgado, let's not rewrite history."
I straightened my spine.
"By 'well,' do you mean the nights you got drunk calling Miss Simmons's name while I sat beside you, mimicking her voice to coax you to sleep?"
"Or do you mean the galas where you paraded me in front of trust-fund brats who called me 'the knockoff'—and you stood there and said nothing?"
"Or maybe—"
"You're blaming me?"
A cold laugh. He stepped forward, his presence bearing down like a wall.
"Mr. Delgado, please."
I lifted my chin and gave him that flawless, impeccable smile he loved so much—the professional kind, the kind that never reached the eyes.
"I graduated with a finance degree. I don't make losing deals. In three years, I blocked eighty-six drinks for you, handled twenty-four women angling for my spot, and managed your emotional needs every single night. That's labor. It has costs."
"Reset—eighty-six times ten, plus—"
I shoved the calculator screen in his face.
"I'll round down. Twenty-four million. And since you're welcoming Miss Simmons home, I'll throw in a two-percent discount. Wishing you both a lifetime of happiness."
Lewis stared at the number. His chest heaved.
"Fine. Fine."
One swipe of his hand sent the calculator clattering to the floor.
He looked at me. "The Fox family still owes me fifty million. You walk out now—how do you plan to settle that?"
I crouched down, picked up the calculator, and pressed the reset key.
"Your memory's slipping, Mr. Delgado." I stood, brushing the dust off my knees. "Last month, the acquisition I closed for you? The commission plus my base salary covered the last of the debt. The bank statements hit your inbox yesterday."
Lewis didn't check his inbox.
He sank onto the sofa and lit a cigarette.
Smoke curled upward, veiling his eyes.
"So you used me, and now you want to leave?" He exhaled a ring of smoke. "Clarissa just got back and you can't wait to throw attitude in my face?"
"It's the end of a contract." I corrected him. "Our employment relationship terminates today."
The electronic click of a fingerprint lock echoed from the foyer.
The door opened.
Clarissa Simmons stood in the doorway in a white dress, a limited-edition Birkin dangling from her fingers.
She took in the shredded paper scattered across the floor, then looked at me.
"Lewis, did I come at a bad time?" She stayed where she was, her fingers tightening around the bag strap.
Lewis crushed out his cigarette and rose to his feet, walking toward Clarissa.
As he passed me, he deliberately knocked his shoulder into mine.
