Addicted To His Fake Sugar Baby

Dereck was still staring at the phone when the door to the suite swung open. He didn't look up. The only person who would dare enter without knocking was the only person he tolerated.

Preston Shaw-Huxley sauntered into the room, a whirlwind of Savile Row tailoring and arrogant charm. He was already heading for the mini-bar, pulling out a bottle of Macallan 25 as if he owned the place. Which, in a way, his family almost did.

"What's the face for?" Preston asked, pouring a generous measure into a crystal tumbler. "You look like a kid who found a bug in his soup."

Dereck didn't answer. He just held out the phone.

Preston took it, his eyes scanning the screen. He read the messages, his expression shifting from amusement to disbelief. He played the voice memo, letting the raspy "Daddy" fill the silent room.

"Seriously?" Preston set the phone down on the coffee table with a clatter. "This is what's got you brooding? A catfish?"

"She refused a hundred and fifty thousand dollars," Dereck said flatly.

"She what?" Preston picked the phone up again, scrolling back through the chat. He read the refusal, his eyebrows climbing higher and higher. "Okay, now I know this is a scam. A good one, but still a scam."

He dropped onto the sofa opposite Dereck, swirling the whisky in his glass. "This is textbook PUA stuff, Dereck. Step one: establish the innocent, sick-girl persona. Step two: reject the money to make yourself seem different from all the other gold-diggers. Step three: make him feel guilty for doubting you. It's straight out of the internet playbook."

Dereck watched his friend, his expression unreadable. "You think it's an act."

"I know it's an act," Preston said, taking a sip of his drink. "Come on, man. This isn't you. You're Dereck Campos. You eat people like this for breakfast. You're just bored because you're stuck in this bed."

"Maybe," Dereck said, his voice noncommittal.

Preston leaned forward, his eyes suddenly serious. "You're not actually falling for this, are you? You forgot what happened with Lydia?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Dereck's hand, resting on the arm of the wheelchair, tightened into a fist. The knuckles went white.

Preston immediately held up a hand. "Shit. Sorry. I shouldn't have-forget I said that."

The silence stretched, thick and toxic. The name Lydia was a landmine, and Preston had just stepped on it. Lydia, who had smiled and lied and stolen. Lydia, who had turned Dereck into the cold, cynical bastard he was today, long before the accident that confined him to this wheelchair.

"Look," Preston said, his tone softer now, placating. "I'm just looking out for you. You're in a vulnerable state. You're isolated. It's the perfect setup for a con. Just let the legal team handle it. One letter from our lawyers, one trace on the IP address, and this 'MoonCookie' will be exposed in a few hours."

It was the logical solution. It was the Dereck Campos solution. A quick, surgical strike to remove the annoyance.

But Dereck didn't want to remove the annoyance. He wanted to play with it.

"No," he said. "That's boring."

Preston stared at him. "Boring? Since when do you care about boring? You're a results guy."

"I want to see where this goes," Dereck said, his eyes fixed on the phone. "She's different."

"Different how?" Preston scoffed. "Because she's playing hard to get? That's the oldest trick in the book!"

But even as he said it, Preston could see the change in his friend's eyes. It was a spark, a flicker of the obsessive, driven maniac who could dismantle a Fortune 500 company before lunch. Dereck wasn't just curious. He was fixated.

"Fine," Preston said, standing up and draining his glass. "If you won't end it, I will."

He walked over and snatched the phone off the table. "I'm going to test your little MoonCookie. I'm going to push a button and see if she squeaks or squawks."

Dereck didn't move to stop him. He just watched, a faint, predatory smile touching his lips. "Go ahead."

Preston looked at the screen, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He wasn't going to play nice. He was going to hit her with a sledgehammer. He was going to scare the truth out of this con artist, no matter what it took.