You Chose the Rich Girl, So Why Are You Paying Interest to Me

One week later, on the evening of the gala, Bianca’s live notification banner popped up on my phone as my town car climbed toward Moonridge.

*Bianca Cole is now live: 'Welcoming Our Special Guest to Moonridge!'*

I tapped the screen as the stream connected. Over three thousand pack members were already in the room, the live chat scrolling at breakneck speed.

Bianca sat in the center of the screen, dressed in a shimmering champagne gown, her diamond earrings catching the studio ring light. She held up my half-million-dollar wager receipt on a secondary tablet, laughing with dramatic disbelief.

"Can you believe it, everyone?" Bianca leaned into the microphone, flashing a polished smile. "Five hundred thousand dollars! It looks like our favorite former pack charity case found an online loan shark just to make an appearance tonight."

She turned the camera toward a banquet table set slightly apart from the main VIP tier.

In the center of the linen sat an old, tarnished metal pin: the pack scholarship badge Derek’s father had handed me during my freshman year of college. The edges were worn, the silver plating scratched from years of being pinned to my second-hand blazer.

Right next to it, Bianca placed an engraved silver donation box with a narrow slot cut into the top.

"I had the event team dig this out of the pack storage vault," Bianca said, tapping the dented badge with a manicured nail. "Just in case our old scholarship girl needs help covering dinner. Feel free to drop your spare change inside when you arrive. Every dollar counts toward her ticket."

The chat exploded with laughing reactions and dollar-sign emojis.

Bianca stood up, taking the stabilizer gimbal as she strolled through the Moonridge Resort penthouse floor. She panned across the marble foyer, the glass-encased private wine cellar stocked with vintage Bordeaux, and the massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the mountain valley.

Outside on the tarmac, the twin turbines of a chartered Gulfstream sat beneath floodlights, painted with the Silver Moon crest.

"Derek and I built this entire empire from the ground up," Bianca announced to the camera, gesturing out at the illuminated skyline. "Every suite, every runway, every square foot of this mountain. True Alpha status comes from vision, not desperate bluffs."

I locked my phone screen and slid it into my evening clutch.

Ten minutes later, my black town car pulled into the underground service bay beneath Moonridge Resort.

I stepped out into the concrete loading dock, avoiding the photographers and media vans crowding the main driveway. The back corridors were quiet, smelling of clean linen, fresh paint, and polished slate. Two florists hurried past carrying towering arrangements of imported white orchids for the grand ballroom.

My phone buzzed in my hand with a system alert from Lunaris Treasury.

*Moonridge Resort Development LLC: $385,000 monthly interest payment due at 6:00 PM. Status: UNPAID.*

I swiped the alert away and entered the private executive elevator, using a black keycard to override the floor restrictions.

The doors opened on the top floor into the resort’s private boardroom.

Raymond Miller, the resort’s veteran general manager, was pacing behind the mahogany conference table. The moment he saw me, he stopped cold, pulling a handkerchief from his suit pocket to dab his forehead.

"Ms. Lane," Miller said, his voice strained as he pulled out a leather armchair for me. "Thank you for coming up directly. We received the formal enforcement package from your legal team thirty minutes ago."

He set a thick, bound leather portfolio on the table between us.

I sat down, opening the cover to review the stamped execution pages.

Lunaris Holdings had purchased Moonridge’s entire first-lien bridge debt from the regional banking consortium three months earlier. Forty million dollars in senior secured notes, carrying full covenants and backed by the resort’s land deeds, building titles, and other pledged operating assets.

"Derek and the board had an emergency session at noon," Miller murmured, keeping his hands clasped tightly in front of him. "The chief financial officer urged him to sign the restructuring terms Lunaris offered last week. But Alpha Derek refused. He insisted the expansion would bring in twenty million in private donations tonight at the gala."

"Donations don't service senior debt," I said, turning to the signature appendix. "What did the board decide?"

"Derek told the board that Lunaris is bluffing," Miller said, his voice dropping lower. "He believes no creditor would dare foreclose on an Alpha territory during an active expansion. He thinks he has the leverage."

I looked at the legal notice attached to the final page: a formal declaration of default, already signed by my managing director, ready to be submitted to the territorial registry at midnight.

"Then tonight they should stop pretending debt is ownership," I said calmly.

I closed the portfolio and handed it back to him.

"Keep the registry filing queued for twelve o'clock sharp, Miller. Not a minute earlier, not a minute later."

"Understood, Ms. Lane." Miller gave a slight, respectful bow, taking the file.

Downstairs, the faint bass of the opening orchestra music began to vibrate through the floorboards.

I pulled up the live stream on my phone once more.

The camera was now stationed at the grand double doors of the Moonridge ballroom. Bianca stood beside Derek at the center of the reception floor, surrounded by pack elders, wealthy investors, and local reporters.

Derek held a crystal champagne flute, his chest puffed out beneath a bespoke tuxedo, accepting congratulations from council members on the resort's supposed financial triumph.

Bianca stepped in front of the roaming camera again, holding the old scholarship badge high above her head.

"Attention, everyone!" Bianca’s amplified voice echoed through the stream’s audio feed, drawing the entire room’s attention. "The betting pool on Avery Lane showing up is still open. But let’s make it interesting."

She walked over to the VIP donor entrance, placing the battered metal badge right next to the reserved table placard bearing my name.

"If Avery Lane actually walks through those doors and sits in the VIP donor section under her own name," Bianca called out with a bright laugh, "I’ll personally add another hundred thousand dollars to the NO side!"

The ballroom erupted in cheers and applause, glasses clinking across the hall as the bet tracker updated on the big screen behind the stage.

I stood up from the boardroom table and walked toward the private elevator lobby.

The reflection in the polished bronze panels showed a fitted black column dress with clean lines, free of visible logos or flashy jewelry, save for a simple platinum band on my right index finger.

The elevator attendant stood by the open doors, bowing his head as I approached.

"Ms. Lane, your security team has the penthouse suite ready," the attendant said politely. "Would you like me to take you straight to the private viewing lounge?"

I looked down the open mezzanine railing toward the glittering ballroom below, where Derek and Bianca were laughing beside the silver charity box.

"Not yet," I said quietly, stepping into the elevator. "I have a bet to collect first."