After I Invoiced the Billionaire for Three Years of Fake Love, He Lost Everything

I walked to the table and picked up the bowl of steaming bird's nest soup.

I stirred it once with the spoon, letting the heat curl upward in thin wisps. Then I scooped up a spoonful and brought it to Clarissa's lips.

Clarissa glanced at Lewis, then opened her mouth.

The instant the spoon touched her lips, she flinched. Her head jerked back, and her hand swatted the bowl away.

"It's burning!" she cried.

The porcelain bowl hit the floor.

Scalding soup splashed out, most of it landing on the back of my hand and my wrist.

The skin flushed red immediately.

Clarissa clutched her chest, eyes brimming. "I'm so sorry, Abigail—I didn't mean to, it was just so hot..."

Lewis pulled Clarissa toward him, checking her face and neck.

"Are you burned?" His voice was tight with concern.

Once he confirmed she was fine, he turned to look at me.

Two glistening blisters had already risen on the back of my hand.

His gaze lingered on them for exactly one second. Then it moved away.

"You can't even handle something this simple," Lewis said. "Clean it up."

I lowered my hand. The blisters grazed the hem of my sleeve, and a sharp sting shot through my skin.

"Of course," I said.

I bent down and gathered the shards of porcelain from the floor.

My fingers bled where the edges bit in. I didn't make a sound.

At eight that evening, a private banquet was held at the Delgado Mansion.

It was a welcome-home celebration for Clarissa.

Lewis handed me a black staff uniform and assigned me to serve drinks and direct guests.

I was the former companion. Now I was the waitstaff.

Everyone in the Capital's elite circle treated it as entertainment—a chance to watch the fallen Fox heiress make a fool of herself.

I changed into the uniform and moved through the crowd with a tray balanced on my palm.

Someone deliberately clipped my shoulder. Wine sloshed over the rim.

"Well, well—isn't that Abigail Fox?" A woman in a red dress covered her mouth, laughing. "What happened, didn't Lewis give you a severance package?"

I recognized her. She'd once tried to cozy up to Lewis, and I'd been made to down three shots of hard liquor on her behalf.

"Beth Finch." I pulled a cloth from my apron and wiped down the tray. "The champagne runs ten thousand a bottle. You just knocked over half a glass. That's five thousand in damages. Card or wire transfer?"

The color drained from her face. "Are you out of your mind?"

"If you'd rather not pay," I tipped my chin toward Lewis across the room, "that's my employer over there. You're welcome to file a complaint. He can dock it from my wages—though he usually requires the responsible party to reimburse ten times the amount."

Beth glared at me, then walked away.

In the center of the hall, Lewis had Clarissa on his arm as they made their rounds, toasting guests.

Clarissa wore a couture gown. Around her neck hung a sapphire necklace.

I'd seen that necklace before.

It had belonged to my mother. It was also the most valuable thing I'd ever pawned to Lewis.

I stood in the shadows, watching the sapphire catch the light.

Lewis seemed to sense my gaze. He turned his head.

He raised his glass in my direction—a distant, mocking salute.

A faint smirk played at the corner of his mouth.

Clarissa followed his line of sight, then leaned close and whispered something in his ear.

Lewis nodded.

Clarissa gathered her skirt and walked toward me.

She stopped in front of me, her fingers trailing along the necklace.

"Abigail, Lewis told me this necklace was your mother's." Clarissa smiled. "It's beautiful—I absolutely love it. He said he's giving it to me. You don't mind, do you?"

I stared at the sapphire.

"It's his property." My voice dropped low. "It has nothing to do with me."

"As long as you don't mind." Clarissa plucked a glass of red wine from a passing tray. "As a thank-you, let me toast you."

She held the glass out to me.

I reached for it.

Clarissa's fingers released.