He Said I Needed Him to Marry Rich,But I'm the Richest of Them All

"Zoe, let me spell it out for you." Bartholomew's voice dripped with condescension. "When you're up against real money and real power, fairness is nothing but a joke." He turned to Rosalind with a lazy wave. "Transfer her deposit back."

My anger shot through the roof in an instant.

"Manager, if you insist on rigging this transaction," I said, my expression going cold, "then don't expect me to play nice."

The manager let out a derisive laugh. "You? A nobody? What exactly are you going to do about it?"

He spread his hands wide. "You want the rings? Fine! Since your husband is dead and he's the one who broke the agreement first, we have every right to reprice them."

"Twenty-five million dollars. You want to walk out of here with those rings, then pay up."

I looked at the manager, who couldn't see past the dollar signs. I looked at the crowd of onlookers, every last one of them watching me like I was the punchline of a joke.

Even if I'd wanted to keep a low profile, that was no longer an option.

And those rings were Adam's. The last thing he'd left behind. I would sooner die than let them fall into someone else's hands.

"Fine." My voice was steady. "Twenty-five million. I'll pay it."

"Give me back the rings."

The words had barely left my mouth before Rosalind and the others burst into laughter. Even the manager and the sales associates shot me looks of open contempt.

"Oh, please, Zoe, who are you trying to fool?" Rosalind cackled. "That's twenty-five million. Not twenty-five hundred. You understand the difference, right?"

One of the staff snickered. "She doesn't understand a thing. Before Mr. Gilbert bankrupted her, sure, maybe she could've afforded it. But now? Not a chance."

Bartholomew fixed me with a mocking smile. "This is the difference between us."

"No matter how hard you struggle, it's pointless. I said I'd bankrupt you, and I did. But you just had to be stubborn. You just couldn't bring yourself to bow your head and admit you were wrong."

He tilted his chin up. "Apologize to me right now, and I'll give you the rings."

Listening to him talk was like listening to a mosquito buzz in my ear.

I didn't bother acknowledging any of them. I turned to the manager instead.

"If I produce twenty-five million dollars, I can take the rings. Correct?"

The manager clearly assumed I couldn't produce a cent of it. He nodded without hesitation. "Correct."

"But there's a time limit. I'm giving you thirty minutes."

"Oh, wait, wait." Rosalind raised a finger, her eyes glittering with malice. "She has to pay in cash."

She sauntered closer, her voice syrupy with mockery. "Zoe, if you want to buy those rings out from under me, you'll pay in cash. And if you can't manage that, I'll buy them right now for thirty million."

The crowd erupted in applause.

"Secretary Finch is brilliant!"

"That'll shut her up for good. Let's see her bluff her way out of this one."

Bartholomew nodded along, clearly delighted with Rosalind's move.

"Since your love for your husband runs so deep," he said, his tone dripping with false sympathy, "you really ought to protect what he left behind."

"And if you can't protect it, don't blame us for calling you what you are: worthless."

I ignored every word. I pulled out my phone and dialed Winston.

If I paid by card, Rosalind would simply outbid me on the spot. I refused to let Adam's rings become a bargaining chip in their petty war. And frankly, showing up with the cash would be the most satisfying way to wipe those smirks off their faces.

"Prepare twenty-five million in cash and have it delivered to the ZQ counter at Golden Plaza. As fast as possible."

The moment I hung up, their laughter turned shrill and grating.

Bartholomew shook his head at me with exaggerated disappointment. Rosalind rolled her eyes. "You should learn to wear a hat that fits your head. When you can't deliver in thirty minutes, you'll be the laughingstock of the entire city."

I didn't respond. Words were wasted on people like them.

Less than thirty minutes later, a woman walked through the boutique entrance. She wore a tailored suit, her posture ramrod straight, her expression carved from stone.

She carried a case in one hand, two bodyguards flanking her from behind.

With a deferential bow, she approached me. "Mrs. Henson, here is the twenty-five million you requested. If it's not enough, I can have someone bring another hundred million."

The case opened. Row after row of crisp hundred-dollar bills gleamed under the lights, almost blinding in their perfection.

Every person in the room sucked in a sharp breath, then turned wide, disbelieving eyes toward the woman who had just delivered a fortune to me.

Bartholomew shot up from the couch like he'd been electrocuted. "That's—that's the famous chief director of Northgate City's central bank!"