My Sugar Baby Betrayed Me, So I Took Everything Back

The owner of the jeweler called me personally, his voice shaking：

“Ms. Pruitt, among the pieces your assistant sent in for maintenance, one of the custom rings is a fake……”

I set down the documents in my hand, my voice cold enough to freeze bone：

“Trace it. Every piece has a unique serial number. Find the last transaction or service record, wherever it was.”

The answer came fast.

One month ago, in Southport, a young woman had worn the ring to a jewelry auction.

The auction house had cleaned and serviced it free of charge. It was all on file.

The woman's photo and social media handle landed on my phone within minutes.

Her latest post showed my pink-diamond ring on her finger, captioned：

【The engagement ring from my Chen. One of a kind, just like us.】

Top comment underneath：

【That's the richest man in Southport for you! Nothing but the best!】

My brow furrowed.

Ken Simmons was engaged? With MY ring?

He was nothing but a fish in my pond.

And now he was calling himself the richest man in town and getting engaged to another woman?

Since he couldn't even manage the simple job of being a kept man, it was time to strip him back down to the nobody he'd always been.

……

I called my assistant：

“Book me on the next flight back to the States. I'm going straight to the Southport subsidiary.”

“And keep my itinerary off the record.”

Ken Simmons was a fish in my pond, and not even a particularly favored one.

I was the reason he got to play CEO. Without my say-so, he was nothing.

Since he'd chosen disloyalty, it was time to reel in the line and gut the fish.

He'd always believed I was a washed-up heiress who'd sold her luxury car to fund his startup.

He thought I was sitting around wide-eyed, waiting for him to strike it big and do me the charity of a marriage proposal.

He had no idea I was the actual controlling shareholder of one of the nation's most powerful conglomerates.

The whole thing had been nothing more than a little “roleplay.”

Three days later, I stood in the lobby of the Southport subsidiary.

I slipped off my sunglasses and tapped the reception desk：

“I'm here to see Ken Simmons.”

The receptionist rolled her eyes so hard they nearly left her skull：

“Another gold-digger! I've told you people a hundred times, Mr. Simmons has a fiancée!”

Moments later, a woman came clicking across the marble in stilettos, a look of smug superiority plastered on her face.

“What business do you have with my fiancé?”

I looked her up and down. Sure enough, it was Ken Simmons' “fiancée” herself, Meg Henson.

Young, pretty, curves in all the right places.

My gaze dropped to her hand.

There it was. My personal property, a pink diamond worth two million dollars, sitting on her finger.

I spoke, unhurried：

“Nice ring.”

She smiled thinly：

“Engagement ring. One of a kind. Worth six million.”

“You're not the first gold-digger and you won't be the last. Turn around and leave. You don't stand a chance.”

My gaze lingered on that self-satisfied face of hers.

“Your fiancé is Ken Simmons? The so-called richest man in Southport?”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, making sure the ring caught the light.

“That's right.”

“Leave while I'm still being nice.”

“Women like you, I've seen a hundred of.”

The Southport subsidiary was worth about three hundred million. By Pruitt Group standards, it barely registered as a rounding error.

A year ago, I'd tossed it to my boy toy Ken Simmons to “build his empire” with.

At the time, the branch was worth less than ten million.

He'd pounded his chest and sworn he'd grow the company into something formidable.

He had grown it, sure. But his ego had swelled even faster.

Three hundred million, and he had the nerve to call himself the richest man in Southport.

The idiot had probably counted the entire Pruitt Group under his own name.

Some people always mistake the platform for their own talent.

Without the conglomerate propping him up, Ken Simmons couldn't have built a lemonade stand to three hundred million.

“Since you're Ken Simmons' fiancée, go get him. Tell him to come see me.”

Meg let out a sharp scoff：

“Who do you think you are? The richest man in Southport doesn't just come when some nobody snaps her fingers!”

Done wasting my breath, I slapped her across the face. Hard. Three times. “Crack, crack, crack.”

Hard enough to send her false lashes flying off.

“How about now? Can I see him now?”

Meg shrieked, one hand clutching her cheek, her expression caught between rage and disbelief：

“You psycho!!”

She dialed Ken's number on the spot：

“Kenny, get down here! Some crazy woman at the front desk just hit me!”

Ken's voice blasted through the speaker, livid：

“Who gave her the guts?! Hitting you is the same as slapping ME in the face!”

“I will make her regret ever setting foot in Southport!”

After she hung up, Meg jabbed a finger in my direction, seething：

“My husband adores me! He won't let you get away with this!”

I glanced at the ring on her hand one more time and smiled：

“Funny. My husband adores me too.”

“Why don't we compare? See whose husband is the bigger deal.”

Without any rush, I dialed Ken Simmons' number：

“Hey, babe. I'm flying back to the States. Did you miss me?”

On the other end, Ken's voice turned syrupy and pathetically eager：

“Honey! Send me your flight number, I'll pick you up at the airport.”

Meg let out a derisive snort：

“I can tell just from his voice, your husband's a freeloader. Don't even try to compare him to my Kenny.”

I smiled and said nothing.

The idiot still had no idea that her “richest man in Southport” and my “freeloader” were the same person.