She wasn't even a 'she.'
That day in the corridor, when Vincent tugged at Chelsea's collar, I had seen it clearly beneath the heavy foundation and the strategically placed scarf.
A protruding laryngeal prominence.
An Adam's apple.
In the chaos of the struggle, biology betrayed the disguise.
My forensic training kicked in instantly. The bone structure, muscle density, the sheer mechanics of the body—"Chelsea," the so-called campus beauty, was a fraud. A man in a dress.
I had no intention of warning Derek Finch.
In my past life, he had sacrificed me for this illusion, pushing me into a living hell. In this life? If he wanted his "white moonlight" so badly, he could have him. I would sit back and let him enjoy every twisted second of this unique love.
Derek's discharge day was a spectacle of humiliation.
The Finches were ruthless. Seeing their son obstinately clinging to that delinquent, they nuked the bridge—published a newspaper announcement severing ties, repossessed his luxury car and apartment, froze every credit card in his name.
"Derek, don't be afraid. Even if the whole world turns its back on you, I never will."
Chelsea dabbed at dry eyes, her gaze locked not on Derek's face, but on the Vacheron Constantin on his wrist.
Oblivious to the predatory stare, Derek wept with gratitude.
"Chelsea, I knew it! You're the only one who truly loves me. I swear, I'll get you that two million. When I make it big, you'll be the happiest woman alive."
They moved into a cramped room in the slums that very night.
Though I tried to distance myself from Derek's train wreck of a life, the scandal was too loud to ignore. He was an alumnus involved in a massive public fallout; gossip followed him everywhere. As I shadowed my professor on cases, updates drifted my way.
Derek, unable to care for himself, relied entirely on Chelsea. And in that intimacy, he started noticing quirks.
Chelsea guarded the bathroom like a fortress, locking the door for every shower. Her strength was unnatural—she hauled a heavy gas cylinder up five flights one-handed.
Yet Derek bragged on social media: "My Chelsea is such a tough girl. So straightforward and cute!"
Then came the rumor that someone saw Chelsea urinating standing up.
Derek's defense was immediate and delusional: "It's a European lifestyle trend. You peasants wouldn't understand. Chelsea is forward-thinking!"
Reading the classmates' mocking reposts, I laughed until my ribs ached.
Desperate to prove he didn't need the Finch fortune, Derek dragged his crippled body to deliver takeout. But with weak hands and a lame leg, he was fired within two days after a barrage of complaints.
Finally, Chelsea "couldn't bear to watch" and produced a stack of cash.
"Derek, this is the dowry I saved. It's not much, but it's enough to start a small business."
Derek nearly fell to his knees. He told anyone who would listen, "See? This is true love! Valerie Fox is just a gold digger who abandoned me, but Chelsea is my salvation!"
People looked at him like he was deranged.
By then, I was already assisting on high-profile investigations. He was a disowned cripple; I was a rising forensic consultant. Worlds apart.
Through my police connections, I quickly realized the source of Chelsea's "dowry." It wasn't savings. It was loot.
A string of burglaries had plagued their neighborhood—electric scooters, jewelry, cash. The police had opened files but lacked hard evidence.
I didn't. Cross-referencing the timeline with surveillance footage, I spotted a familiar silhouette.
Chelsea.
