I took a job organizing the walk-in closet of a mansion.
Ten thousand dollars an hour.
The client was Amy Pruitt, one of Greystone City's most talked-about socialites.
She said her fiancé had a thing about cleanliness—every luxury item had to have its logo removed before it could be stored.
That particular quirk was identical to my boyfriend's, a painter so broke he lived on instant ramen.
I was thrilled, thinking I'd found a great way to make money.
Then the man in the tailored suit pushed open the door.
He tossed Amy a limited-edition handbag worth a fortune like it was nothing.
Then he turned and looked at me with cold indifference. "This maid has sticky fingers. Fire her."
That was the moment I understood.
For five years, I'd scrimped and saved to fund his dream of becoming an artist.
It had only ever been a script for his little experiment in "living like a commoner."
And me? I didn't even qualify as a proper supporting character.
...
My name is Isabella Fox. I'm a luxury goods authenticator.
People in the industry call me "the Divine Eye."
If I've examined a bag, nothing gets past me—real or fake.
But lately, I was desperate for money.
My boyfriend, Dirk Harding, was putting on an art exhibition.
The venue rental, the marketing costs—they were crushing me.
To support his dream, I slept only four hours a night.
I'd even taken this closet-organizing side job behind his back.
The client, Amy Pruitt, was notorious in Greystone City's elite circles for being impossibly high-maintenance.
"Miss Fox, my fiancé despises these tacky logos."
Amy waved a manicured hand at the room full of top-tier heritage brands, her voice dripping with disdain.
"Remove every single label. And I don't want to see so much as a stray thread."
I blinked.
That quirk. I knew it too well.
Dirk hated logos too.
He said art should be pure—untainted by the symbols of money.
Over the past five years, I'd gone through more scissors than I could count.
All so he could dress "purely."
I crouched on the floor, deftly deconstructing shirts that cost six figures each.
Amy stood nearby, cooing into her phone in a voice so sweet it was almost sickening.
"Baby, are you coming home soon?"
"The organizer's working fast. You're going to be so pleased."
The door opened.
Amy rushed over.
"Dirk! You're finally back!"
I looked up instinctively.
The scissors in my hand went snip—and sliced through the fabric at the wrong angle.
The man standing before me, radiating confidence and wealth.
It was my boyfriend. The one who was supposed to be in his basement studio right now, gnawing on cold bread.
Dirk Harding.
He wore an impeccably tailored suit, and on his wrist gleamed a Patek Philippe worth millions.
That watch—I'd seen it in magazines countless times, never daring to even dream of touching one.
Amy clung to his arm and pouted up at him.
"Look, this lady ruined one of your shirts."
Dirk's gaze landed on me.
No surprise at seeing me again.
No panic at being caught.
Just the kind of disgust reserved for something crawling beneath his shoe.
"Someone at this level was allowed into my home?"
His voice was cold enough to freeze.
My hand trembled around the scissors.
"Dirk, didn't you say you were holed up in your studio?"
Amy let out a laugh.
"Dirk, you know this maid?"
Dirk unfastened his cufflinks with unhurried precision.
"No."
"Probably some debt collector from one of the studios."
He pulled Amy close and walked deeper into the house without sparing me another glance.
"Babe, hire someone professional next time. Don't just drag in any piece of trash off the street."
I stood rooted to the spot, ice flooding my veins.
The shirt I'd just ruined was the one Amy had specifically pointed out to me.
It was Dirk's favorite brand.
