PlotlumeMy boyfriend of three years was diagnosed with a serious heart condition and urgently needed three hundred thousand dollars for surgery. Without telling him, I prepared to sell my home.
A second before signing, I logged into his old phone to find his medical insurance credentials. A group chat called “Heir Desensitization Training” popped up instead.
The first thing I saw was the assessment schedule my boyfriend had posted.
Step one: Pretend to be critically ill and bankrupt. Test whether she'll sell everything to save me.
Step two: Lure her into borrowing from loan sharks. Break down her boundaries and dignity.
Step three: If she lasts two years, reward her with permission to enter the Grayson family as a full-time housewife.
My fingers trembled as I scrolled. The group was full of his wealthy friends' mockery.
“Brilliant, Young Master Grayson. Got an innocent college girl to work herself to death without lifting a finger.”
My boyfriend replied, “Mostly because she's easy to fool. Once the three hundred thousand arrives, I'm treating everyone to a yacht party on the high seas tonight.”
Just then, a photo appeared at the top of the screen: him on a yacht, looking at women in bikinis.
I looked at the property sale contract in my hands and calmly tore it to pieces.
“I'm done raising the money. And I'm done with him.”
1
“Ms. Holloway, are you still selling the house?”
The agent pushed a black pen toward me, anxiety in his eyes.
The sale contract lay open to its last page. The buyer had already paid the deposit into the agency's account.
One signature, and the only property my parents had left me would become three hundred thousand dollars to save a life.
I didn't take the pen. My eyes stayed fixed on the old, cracked-screen phone beside me.
Brandon Grayson's spare phone.
Half an hour earlier, the hospital had chased the surgery payment. I had found this phone to retrieve his electronic medical insurance credentials.
Instead, I had accidentally opened a group chat called Heir Desensitization Training.
Every message was a blade driven straight into three years of sacrifice.
“Ms. Holloway?” the agent urged again. “The buyer's waiting to complete the title transfer.”
Slowly, I raised my head and took one corner of the contract.
Rrrip.
The crisp tearing of paper sounded painfully sharp in the quiet office.
The agent's eyes widened. He shot to his feet.
“Are you crazy? It's a cash buyer! You won't get another chance like this!”
I dropped the torn contract in the nearby wastebasket, my voice so steady it sounded strange even to me.
“I'm sorry. I'm not selling. I'll pay any contract penalty required.”
Then my own phone vibrated.
Brandon's name flashed on the screen.
I looked at the familiar name and answered.
“Harper…” His voice sounded desperately weak, accompanied by deliberately suppressed gasps.
“Have you raised the money? The doctor says if the surgery isn't paid for by tomorrow morning, I may not survive the month.”
His voice was soft, with precisely measured despair and dependence.
Ten minutes ago, that voice would have sent me into a panic, ready to drain my own blood and sell it.
Now it only made my stomach churn.
“Not yet.” I stared at the bikini photo he had posted in the group.
In it, his face glowed with health. Champagne in hand, he laughed with reckless abandon.
“Don't put too much pressure on yourself, Harper.” He sighed, his voice growing gentler.
“If you can't manage it, forget it. It's only a life. I don't want you suffering so much for me.”
He paused, then delivered the most devastating blow.
“Riley came to see me. She took out an online loan. The interest is high, but it'll cover fifty thousand for now.”
“A young woman like her is willing to do that for me. Harper, I couldn't repay her kindness in a lifetime.”
Riley Sutton.
The childhood neighbor he described as pitiful and alone, with no one but him to rely on.
I closed my eyes, countless similar scenes from the past three years rising in my mind.
On Valentine's Day, Riley said she was afraid of thunder. Brandon abandoned our dinner and drove away.
While I sat alone in the hospital on an IV with a 102-degree fever, he liked her late-night party posts on Instagram.
Whenever I tried to question him, he gave me that tolerant, helpless look.
“You're the sensible one, Harper. Riley has depression. Don't hold things against her.”
Sensible.
The word was an invisible shackle, pinning me in place and forcing concession after concession.
“Really?” My voice held no ripple of emotion.
“Since she's so willing to help, let her borrow the other two hundred and fifty thousand too.”
A brief, dead silence on the other end.
Clearly, Brandon hadn't expected that response.
“What's wrong with you today, Harper?” His voice lowered with barely concealed displeasure.
“Riley went to loan sharks to save me. Instead of being grateful, you make snide remarks?”