Addicted To His Fake Sugar Baby

Preston was pacing the room, his whisky forgotten. "You need to shut this down. Now. Before it goes any further. This isn't a game, Dereck. This is your life. Your reputation."

Dereck wasn't listening. He was still looking at the phone, his thumb tracing the edge of the screen. The refusal of the nurse had settled into his brain like a splinter. It was irritating, but he couldn't stop picking at it.

A soft knock on the door interrupted Preston's rant.

"Come in," Dereck called.

The door opened and a young woman stepped in. She was pushing a small metal cart filled with medical supplies. She was blonde, with high cheekbones and a figure that was well-defined under her crisp white uniform.

"Mr. Campos," she said, her voice smooth and professional. "Time for your dressing change."

Preston shot Dereck a look that said, I'll leave you to it, and retreated to the window.

The nurse, whose name tag read Anya, moved efficiently around the wheelchair. She prepped a fresh bandage and a vial of antiseptic. Her movements were precise, clinical, yet there was a deliberateness to them that felt rehearsed.

She worked in silence for a moment, her focus entirely on his injured arm. Then, she spoke, her voice a low murmur. "Your recovery is remarkable, Mr. Campos. Most men wouldn't handle this level of discomfort with such... composure."

Dereck sat perfectly still, his face a mask of ice. He didn't react to the compliment. He didn't blink.

Anya misinterpreted his silence. She grew bolder, though her actions remained technically professional. As she secured the new bandage, her fingers lingered on his skin a fraction of a second too long. "It must be frustrating, being confined like this," she continued, her eyes briefly meeting his. "A man of your stature is surely missed in the world."

She straightened up, her gaze sweeping over his chest and shoulders. "But then, I suppose even titans need to rest. I'm on duty until late, so if you need anything at all... for your comfort... just use the call button." The invitation was clear, wrapped in a veneer of professional concern.

Dereck finally moved. He reached up and grabbed her wrist. His grip was like a vise, the pressure sudden and brutal.

Anya gasped, her eyes widening in shock.

"What is your hourly rate?" Dereck asked, his voice calm and cold.

"I... what?" Anya stammered, trying to pull away. But his hand was immovable.

"Your wage," Dereck repeated. "How much do they pay you to solicit patients?"

Anya's face flushed red. "Mr. Campos, I was just-"

"You were just attempting to prostitute yourself to a patient," Dereck said, his voice dropping a degree. "Which is not only pathetic, but a violation of about a dozen medical ethics codes."

He released her wrist and looked at his assistant, who had appeared in the doorway. "Give her ten times her severance pay. And then have her removed from the premises."

The assistant nodded. "Right away, sir."

"And," Dereck added, his eyes never leaving Anya's terrified face, "inform the Swiss Medical Association that Anya Nowakowski is to be blacklisted from all top-tier facilities. Effective immediately."

Anya's face went white. "No! Please! Mr. Campos, I'm sorry! I didn't mean-"

"Get her out of my sight," Dereck said.

Two security guards appeared and escorted the sobbing woman out of the room. The door clicked shut behind them, cutting off her pleas.

The room was silent. A faint, sterile, antiseptic smell lingered in the air. He grabbed a bottle of sanitizer from the cart and scrubbed his hands, trying to erase the phantom touch of her fingers.

Preston watched the whole scene with a mixture of horror and fascination. "Well," he said, breaking the silence. "That was... efficient."

Dereck didn't respond. He was still scrubbing his hands, his jaw clenched tight.

Preston walked over and leaned against the window frame. "You know, I think I finally get it."

"Get what?" Dereck snapped.

"This MoonCookie thing," Preston said, gesturing to the phone. "You hate women like Anya. You hate the ones who throw themselves at you, who want your money, your power. You've been surrounded by them your whole life."

He paused, letting the words sink in. "But this girl, this catfish, she's the opposite. She's rejecting you. She's refusing your money. She's the one woman in the world who isn't trying to get into your bed."

Dereck stopped scrubbing. He looked at his red, raw hands, then at the phone on the table. The photo of the scraped knuckles flashed in his mind.

"She's the exception," Preston said softly. "And you can't stand it. You can't stand that there's someone out there who doesn't want you."

Dereck didn't confirm or deny it. He just picked up the phone and slipped it into his pocket. But the seed had been planted. The reason for his obsession was no longer a mystery. It was a challenge.

And Dereck Campos never backed down from a challenge.