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.”

2.

After she hung up, Clementine blinked her dry, aching eyes. Her shoulders caved in, as though every last bit of strength had been pulled out of her.

She drifted back to that cramped, mildew-stinking basement like a ghost, and it hit her how pathetic she had been.

Damon was in the kitchen boiling instant noodles that were close to their expiration date. He looked up, the corner of his mouth curving, his voice warm. “Clem, come here. I made your favorite.”

Clementine stood there, watching his performance in silence, her heart splitting open.

Gone was the arrogant young heir from earlier that day. This version of Damon wore the fatigue of a man scraping by, yet his eyes shone with sincerity.

Even now, he was still pretending.

Clementine's eyes reddened. She walked over and knocked the bowl of noodles off the counter. Broth and noodles splashed across the floor.

Damon's brow creased, almost imperceptibly, but he kept his voice even. “What's wrong? Did someone give you a hard time today? It's my fault I can't do more. Let me make you another bowl.”

“Don't bother.”

Clementine cut him off, her tone ice-cold, her gaze locked on his, every word deliberate.

“Damon, I saw someone at the construction site today who looked exactly like you.”

His expression froze for a split second before he recovered with a smile. “Clem, you must've seen wrong. If you don't want the noodles, forget it. I know I'm not much. I swear, when I have money, I'll give you a good life.”

Clementine forced the corners of her lips up, but her chest throbbed with each heartbeat.

“Sure.”

“I dropped all my side jobs.”

Her tone was cool. Surprise flickered in Damon's eyes. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, his voice indulgent.

“Then don't go. I can take care of you. Just rest at home and leave everything to me, okay?”

His body gave off that clean, warm scent she used to love burying herself in. Before, she would have pulled him closer. Now something inside her recoiled, and she gently pushed him away.

“Fine.”

Clementine sat on the couch and watched Damon clean up the spilled noodles, his broad back to her.

Her eyes blurred. Why did everyone, when forced to choose between her and Cindy, throw her away?

The day she was born, a scheming nanny had swapped her identity.

Everything that should have been hers went to Cindy Pruitt, the fake heiress.

Cindy had enjoyed twenty-two years of privilege. Clementine had endured twenty-two years of misery.

Her foster father was a drunk. Every time he drank, he beat her, leaving bruises and welts all over her body.

For the first twenty-two years of her life, Clementine never wore short sleeves. Even in summer, she kept herself covered head to toe.

Her foster mother resented her, pining for her own biological daughter living in luxury with the Pruitts. Every day it was fists or curses.

Clementine grew up to the sound of “worthless tramp” and “waste of money”.

It wasn't until she turned twenty-two that the Pruitts found her and told her she was their real daughter.

Virginia and Brett were kind. They told her not to hold back, to be herself.

Clementine believed them.

She started wanting her parents all to herself. She developed a bit of a temper.

And Cindy seized on every one of those moments, turning the household into a battlefield.

When the Pruitt Group hit a cash-flow crisis, the family needed one of the daughters to marry into an alliance.

Clementine refused. She and Cindy had another explosive fight.

Brett and Virginia looked at Clementine with increasing disappointment. Virginia said, “Clementine, you're the older sister. Why can't you just let her have this? She's younger. She doesn't have your complicated feelings. She's just too attached to us.”

Clementine's tears fell instantly.

She ran out of the Pruitt residence with burning eyes, walked for what felt like hours, and cried until her voice gave out.

She hid in a patch of tall grass, watching flashlight beams sweep back and forth as people searched for her.

She was terrified. And cold.

She hugged herself into a tight ball, then felt something drape over her shoulders.

She turned. Damon Sheridan stood there, concern written all over his face. Their eyes met, and her heart jolted.

His expression was gentle. “Hey. Are you in trouble? Do you need my help?”

His words were a flicker of warmth in the freezing dark, thawing something inside her chest.

She said yes without thinking, and went back to the basement with him.

The night was heavy with intimacy. Sparks caught between them.

Damon noticed everything. If Clementine mentioned something in passing, no matter how expensive, he found a way to buy it for her.

She was a picky eater. Damon got up before sunrise every day to practice cooking, just so she would eat a little more.

She was terrified of thunder. Every time a storm hit, Damon held her and soothed her through the night without closing his eyes.

Day by day, she learned what it felt like to be loved.

And all of it was fake?

Her tears came harder, until she could barely breathe.

Damon sensed something. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, his voice laced with concern. “Clem, what happened? Who hurt you?”

Clementine pulled her lips into something that wasn't quite a smile. She wiped her eyes hard. “Damon, we're done.”

He clearly hadn't expected that. He went still for a beat, and his voice cooled. “We can talk about whatever this is. I don't agree to breaking up.”

Every feeling Clementine had been holding down erupted. She slapped him, hard, her voice shredded. “You lied to me! You've been lying to me this whole time. Is it fun, playing with someone's feelings?”

The blow snapped his head to one side. He looked at her swollen eyes, and something nameless and bitter rose in his chest. His voice came out rough.

“I...”

One word. Then nothing.

Clementine let out a hollow laugh. “What, got nothing to say? Let's end this before it gets ugly for both of us.”

Damon's fists clenched. His face was ashen.

He strode to the door, paused with his hand on the frame, and threw one last line over his shoulder. “Cool off. I'm not agreeing to this.”

After he left, Clementine broke completely. She sank to the floor and sobbed.

She didn't know how long she cried before a knock came at the door. She looked up through tear-blurred eyes, a tiny, foolish hope flickering, and went to open it.

A middle-aged woman stood there, scowling. “You want to cry, go cry somewhere else. Some of us are trying to sleep. Unbelievable.”

The last light in Clementine's eyes went out. She apologized repeatedly, then closed the door.

Her phone buzzed.

It was from her best friend.

“Clem please please please cover my shift tomorrow. If I call in sick one more time my manager's going to fire me. You wouldn't let your bestie starve, right?”

Clementine wiped her tears and typed back a single word: okay.

3.

The Hilltop Club.

Clementine stood outside a private room, hesitating.

The door wasn't fully closed. She looked up, and through the gap she saw everything with brutal clarity.

Damon lounged on a sofa, Cindy Pruitt beside him. The two of them held a slip of paper between their lips, mouths nearly touching, the air thick with suggestion.

The crowd around them was going wild. “Come on, Damon, make a move! Look how shy little Cindy is. You two are perfect together.”

“Seriously. Cindy, if he won't go first, you go. You're going to end up together anyway. Might as well get some practice in.”

Laughter erupted. Cindy blushed and reached for Damon's hand, all coy modesty.

Damon didn't react. He sat there, staring at nothing, lost in some thought.

Clementine stood rooted in place, watching all of it. Her eyes burned.

So this was Damon's world.

His world was full of adoring girls and admiration. Full of love. He wanted for nothing.

She and he had never belonged to the same world.

Even though Clementine had technically grown up in these circles, she had never once been accepted.

Her peers spoke of her with open contempt. “The Pruitts' little stray. Can't even afford a handbag.”

Clementine was unwanted at home. She had known since childhood that the only person she could count on was herself.

In this world, only she and money would never betray her.

Eventually she earned a nickname: “the gold-digging opportunist.”

Someone in the room spoke up. “Damon, word is you slept with her sister for Cindy's sake. So, how was the eldest Miss Pruitt?”

Damon's lips twitched. His voice was low and rough. “Tacky and money-obsessed. But in bed? Absolutely worth the trouble.”

Clementine's heartbeat stuttered. She pulled her gaze back with a bitter smile.

If Damon wanted to humiliate her, did he have to do it like this?

The jeering grew louder. Damon seemed irritated. He spat out the paper slip and leaned back on the sofa.

He glanced up and caught sight of Clementine standing in the doorway.

His brow furrowed. “What's she doing here?”

Cindy followed his gaze, her voice dripping with scorn. “Oh, Damon, did you know my dear sister has a nickname? They call her “the gold-digging opportunist.” Money is all she cares about. She's probably broke and out looking for a new sugar daddy.”

Damon's expression shifted. He remembered Clementine telling him she had dropped all her side jobs. Clementine was someone who panicked without work. She would never stop earning unless she already had enough money.

The thought darkened his face.

He turned and gave an order. “Bring her in.”

One of the young men nodded, walked out, and hauled Clementine inside.

She found herself standing in the center of the room. Her pulse hammered. Her palms were slick.

Fury churned in Damon's eyes. His lips pressed into a hard line, his voice cutting. “Clementine, you love money that much? You're that desperate? Can't wait even one second?”

“Fine. Then strip, right here in front of everyone. Let them all see what you really are.”

“For every piece you take off, I'll give you ten million.”

His words hit like a slap across her face. Her eyes turned red instantly. “Damon, I'm not here for that. I came to cover a shift for a friend.”

Just as Clementine spoke, Cindy knocked a bottle off the table. The crash of shattering glass drowned out every word.

Damon scoffed. “No? Then I'll have someone help you.”

Before the words had settled, several men with hungry eyes closed in on Clementine. A sharp ripping sound ——

Her jacket tore open, exposing the camisole underneath.

As they pulled at her, Damon's expression grew darker with each passing second.

Clementine clutched her arms across her chest. In the middle of the scuffle, Damon's voice cut through.

“Enough. Let her go. Get her out of here. Now.”

He flicked a bank card at her. It struck her face. Clementine flinched, eyes shutting on reflex, the sting shooting straight to the bridge of her nose. She held the tears back by sheer force.

The men looked disappointed but said nothing more.

Clementine walked out of the room, her body rigid, her eyes rimmed red.

The next second, a towel clamped over her mouth. She was wrenched backward and dragged away.

She thrashed wildly, but the drug seeping through the cloth pulled her under.