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

Lewis shook my hand off.

I slammed into the wall and slid to the floor.

"No." Lewis straightened his cuffs. "You want the money? Kneel here. Kneel until dawn, and I'll believe you."

He turned to go back to his room.

"Lewis!" I called after him. "That's a person's life."

Lewis stopped. He didn't turn around.

"Clarissa just had a nightmare. She needs someone with her." His voice was flat. "Stop making noise, or you won't get a cent."

The door closed.

The hallway fell into a dead silence.

I pulled out my phone and sent messages to every contact in my list, begging to borrow money.

No one replied.

The friends I'd once had blocked me long ago.

Minutes crawled by. Seconds dragged.

Until midnight.

My phone buzzed again.

A text message. From the hospital.

Patient Zachary Fox—resuscitation unsuccessful. Time of death confirmed: 11:58 PM. Family members are requested to come to the hospital to complete the necessary procedures.

I stared at the words on the screen.

I recognized every single one of them. I just didn't want to understand what they meant strung together.

From inside the bedroom came Clarissa's soft, honeyed voice: "Lewis, I'm scared..."

Then Lewis's gentle murmur: "Don't be afraid. I'm here."

I braced a hand against the wall and slowly pulled myself to my feet.

The fever seemed to have broken.

My body was strangely cold. Strangely light.

I turned and walked downstairs.

Back in the maid's room, I opened my suitcase. Inside were a few old clothes. Nothing else.

I took out the Emotional Service Invoice—the ledger I'd kept for three years—and set it on the table.

I picked up a pen and wrote a single line on the last page.

Funeral expenses: Priceless.

Status: Paid in full by Abigail Fox.

Balance: All debts settled.

I tore out the page and taped it to the door.

Then I dragged my suitcase out through the front gates of the Delgado Mansion.

It was pouring outside.

I didn't bother with an umbrella.

The rain washed the lingering smell of red wine from my skin.

I pulled the SIM card from my phone and dropped it into a storm drain by the curb.

This time, I didn't need a calculator.

Our accounts were closed.