After Discovering His Fake Poverty, I Walked Away

1.

Everyone in the city knew the story. Clementine Pruitt, the so-called gold-digging eldest daughter of the Pruitt family, had stormed out of the house after her ninety-ninth screaming match with the fake heiress and slept with a nobody.

That nobody, Damon Sheridan, held Clementine in his arms, pressing warm kisses along her neck, never stopping.

He was breathing hard, whispering promise after promise. “Clem, sweetheart. I swear I'll give you a better life someday.”

To help make ends meet, Clementine woke before dawn every morning to pack lunch boxes and haul them to the construction site to sell.

She pushed her cart onto the site. The sun hammered down until white spots swam across her vision, and she collapsed.

Through the haze, she heard the foreman and a worker complaining.

“The site's biggest investor, Mr. Sheridan, is coming for an inspection today. She passes out here and someone sees it, that's a bad look. Drag her out of the way.”

The worker grunted in agreement, grabbed Clementine by the ankles, and dragged her to an out-of-sight corner.

Her body scraped across the gravel. The pain drained the color from her face, and her mind sharpened, catching every word of their conversation.

The worker sidled up to the foreman with a grin. “Boss, this Mr. Sheridan really is something else. Pretending to be broke just to get revenge on the real heiress for some fake one. I've never heard of anything like it.”

The foreman spat hard on the ground and lit a cigarette. “That Pruitt girl has it rough. Suffered all those years with the wrong family, finally comes home, and everyone loves the imposter instead. Even the man she fell for was only with her as payback. Damn shame.”

“Word is, this Mr. Sheridan plans to auction off her explicit photos at the gala. Ruin her completely, so the fake heiress can have the last laugh. Seven days from now, at the auction.”

Their footsteps faded. No one saw Clementine in the corner, her face white as paper.

Her heart sank to the bottom. A hundred “coincidences” flashed through her mind.

Damon didn't know which site she sold lunches at, yet the night she was harassed, every worker with a bad reputation at every nearby site turned up with broken hands and feet.

Damon said he'd grown up with nothing, never had much schooling, yet she had heard him in the bathroom speaking fluent French on the phone.

Damon had no money, but when it came to food, he couldn't hide his pickiness. He refused anything with a strong smell.

The memories clicked together one by one. Her nose stung, but she still couldn't bring herself to believe it.

Was Damon really what they said he was?

Clementine struggled to her feet and heard a commotion in the distance.

From her corner, she saw a Maybach parked nearby, a crowd gathered around it.

A bodyguard pulled open the door, and a man with an unmistakable air of wealth stepped out.

When Clementine saw his face, her heart seized.

The man looked exactly like Damon. Or rather, he was Damon.

She stood frozen, watching him move through the swarm of people, barely remembering to breathe.

Tears spilled down her face instantly, choking sobs tearing out of her until she could barely get air, her chest feeling as though it had been stabbed dozens of times.

So it was all a lie.

Damon had been faking being poor.

Clementine thought of the two of them crammed together in that damp, moldy basement, eating food on the verge of expiring. She had been raised sheltered, and the hardship had wrecked her health. In just a few months she'd lost so much weight she was unrecognizable.

Because she was pretty, workers on the site harassed her constantly. She woke from nightmares in the middle of the night again and again.

So what did it all mean, the suffering she'd endured for this household, the humiliation, the harassment?

Her chest ached. She clenched her jaw, but the tears would not stop.

Betrayal and grief crashed over her in a wave. Trembling, she pulled out her phone and dialed a number she hadn't called in a long time.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

The call finally connected. Her throat was raw. “Hello, Dad. It's me. I'll agree to the arranged marriage. But I want a different groom.”

When the Pruitts had first proposed a marriage alliance for Clementine, there had been more than one option.

Brett Pruitt was surprised, but he agreed without hesitation.

“Clem, sweetheart, I'm glad you've come around. I'll unfreeze your bank account right away. The wedding will go ahead in seven days as planned.”