When my family went bankrupt and creditors chased me into a corner, the poor boy I once looked down on had become a new darling of the business world.

Anthony Vance looked down at me from above. "Layla Sullivan, be my mistress, and I'll pay off your debts."

I didn't hesitate. I signed that humiliating agreement.

After we met again, I was no longer spoiled and willful.

He brought his fiancée to humiliate me. I lowered my head and poured their wine.

Even when he doted on her right in front of me, I would only smile faintly, turn, and leave.

I became the obedient plaything he wanted.

But when I finally paid off the debts and was ready to leave, he grabbed my wrist like he'd gone mad. "Who said you could leave?"

"Layla, did you stop loving me a long time ago?"

——

Rain curtained the deep alleyways of Harborview City, droplets cracking against brick walls.

I curled up in a muddy corner, trembling.

The fresh cigarette burn on my forehead still sizzled, pain drilling into bone. A little "gift" from the debt collectors.

"Miss Sullivan, if you can't pay tonight, next time we burn your face."

They left behind a ground full of filthy insults and my torn clothes.

Harsh headlights swept over, exposing me completely.

I raised a hand to shield my eyes—nothing but mud and grime between my fingers.

A black Maybach rolled to a stop, the window lowering halfway.

I used to ride in that car all the time. Before everything fell apart.

The door opened. A gleaming leather shoe stepped into the murky puddle.

My gaze traveled upward: sharply pressed suit pants, a meticulously tailored jacket. Six figures, minimum.

The man held a black umbrella and looked down at me, eyes colder than the November rain.

I froze.

Anthony Vance.

The poor student I once despised for his background. The one my family kicked out.

Now Harborview City's hottest tech mogul.

And I was a fallen heiress drowning in debt.

The creditors who'd been vicious moments ago immediately switched to fawning smiles.

"Mr. Vance! In rain this heavy, why would you personally—"

Anthony ignored them. He only stared at me.

He walked over and lifted his foot, pressing it down on the back of my bracing hand.

I didn't pull away. Let him step on it.

It was so cold that his shoe actually felt warm.

He slowly added pressure, grinding down.

My hand bones made a grating sound.

"Layla Sullivan, does it hurt?"

His voice was low, carrying a grim chill.

"Like back then? That snowy day when you people threw me out the front door like trash?"

I clenched my teeth and stayed silent.

It hurt. Of course it hurt.

But I didn't have the right to cry.

The creditors understood immediately—in front of this new darling, I was nothing but a plaything.

Anthony withdrew his foot and rubbed the sole against the grass in disgust.

"Layla Sullivan, beg me."

I lifted my head. Rainwater ran down my tangled hair into my eyes, stinging.

"Mr. Vance, can you lend me fifty thousand? My younger brother is in the hospital—"

"Lend?"

He laughed coldly.

"The Sullivans are gone. What would you pay me back with? This body that's already been used up?"

I didn't speak. My nails dug into my palms.

He bent down, gripped my chin, and forced me to meet his gaze.

"Be my mistress, and I'll pay off your debts."

I didn't hesitate long.

Against my brother's sky-high medical bills, dignity wasn't worth the paper it was printed on.

"Okay."

My voice came out hoarse, scraped raw from somewhere deep in my throat.

Anthony was far from satisfied with my compliance; a flash of cruelty passed through his eyes.

"Get in the car."

The heat inside hit me like a wall, sharp with cedar.

A pink cartoon throw pillow sat on the passenger seat—Audrey Swanson's style.

I was soaked through, shrinking back, not daring to sit fully.

Anthony got in. Seeing me like this, his brow furrowed deeper.

"What's with the innocent act?"

He clamped a hand around my waist and yanked me onto his lap.

Mud and dirty water smeared across his expensive suit pants.

I panicked, trying to get up. "Mr. Vance, it's dirty—"

"So you know you're dirty too?"

His tone was mocking, and his fingers traced mercilessly across the burn on my forehead.

"Who you are now is only worth this price."

The car sped through the city, arriving at a hillside villa in the south.

That was where Anthony lived now.

Inside, he pointed straight at the bathroom.

"Go wash yourself clean. Don't dirty my floor."

There were no clean clothes to change into.

I came out wrapped in a bath towel. Anthony was on the sofa, smoking.

He tossed me a silk nightgown.

It wasn't new.

"Put it on."

I unfolded it and caught the scent of perfume.

Mon Paris. Audrey's signature.

I turned my back, untied the towel, and pulled on the nightgown.

When I turned around, Anthony was on a video call.

On the screen, Audrey smiled sweetly. "Anthony, are you asleep? I miss you."

The man who'd looked so cold moments ago now spoke in a voice so gentle it didn't seem like him.

"Not yet. Just finished dealing with a bit of trash. Go to sleep early. I'll pick you up tomorrow."

I stood three yards away, listening to him be tender with another woman.

After he hung up, the gentleness vanished from his face.

He looked at me—undisguised desire and disgust intertwined in his eyes.

He stood, crossed the room in a few strides, and shoved me down onto the sofa.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my body tensed like a bowstring.

The violation I expected never came.

A snort of laughter sounded by my ear.

"Smells poor. Makes me lose my appetite."

He let go and pulled out a wet wipe, carefully wiping his hands.

"Get out to the guest room and sleep on the floor. Don't let me see you."

Clutching my collar, I scrambled into the guest room.

The room was big, but I didn't dare touch the bed.

I curled up on the floor, fingers brushing the spot on my left ring finger.

A faint ring-shaped mark still lingered there.

Once, a straw-braided ring had circled that finger.

That poor boy, Anthony, had made it for me in the Sullivan family's back garden, his hands covered in blood.

He said: Layla, someday I'll replace it with a real one.

Now, the ring had long since rotted in the mud.

Me too.

At six in the morning, I fried eggs and toasted bread, cutting off the hard crusts.

Anthony doesn't eat lettuce, and he doesn't eat fried eggs with overcooked yolks.

I remembered his habits more clearly than my own birthday.

Out of habit, I swapped the lettuce for cucumber slices.

At seven, Anthony came downstairs.

Seeing the breakfast on the table, his steps faltered.

I stood by the dining table, hands folded, eyes lowered.

"Mr. Vance, breakfast is ready."

He walked over, his gaze landing on the sandwich.

The next second, he swept the plate straight into the trash.

A crisp clatter.

Anthony looked at me coldly. "Layla, who do you think I am? I stopped eating this cheap taste a long time ago."

I stared at the fried eggs scattered in the trash, and my chest tightened.

Back then, I'd hated how bland cucumbers tasted and made him switch to lettuce.

To please me, he'd forced himself to get used to it.

Now he didn't even want the cucumbers he used to love.

"Sorry. I didn't know your preferences."

I crouched down and started cleaning up the mess.

A shard of porcelain sliced my finger. Blood beaded up.

Anthony didn't even glance at it. He stepped over me and grabbed a bottle of Evian from the fridge.

"There's a banquet tonight. You're coming."

His tone was ice.

"With my current status, it's not appropriate—"

"What status?" He cut me off with a sneer. "A prostitute? Or Miss Sullivan?"

I had no answer.

"If you're going to be arm candy, act like it."

He tossed me a black gift box.

"Put this on. Don't embarrass me."

That afternoon, a stylist came to do my hair and makeup.

When I opened the box, I found a red, skintight spaghetti-strap dress.

There was barely any fabric. The entire back was bare, the slit climbing all the way to my upper thigh.

This was something a nightclub dancer would wear—not a gown for a business banquet.

But I had no right to refuse.

After putting it on, I stood before the mirror and lowered my eyes. The woman staring back looked no different from an antique on an auction block.

Eight o'clock that night. Harborview City's largest banquet hall.

I walked in on Anthony's arm.

Instantly, countless gazes landed on me.

"Isn't that Miss Sullivan?"

"What Miss Sullivan? The Sullivans went under ages ago. I heard she'll do anything to pay off debts."

"Tsk. Dressed like that—she's probably being kept by Mr. Vance, huh? She used to act like she was better than everyone."

Anthony acted like he heard nothing, guiding me through the crowd.

Those trust-fund kids who used to swarm around me—now they looked at me with something between mockery and hunger.

A potbellied man named Jesse Lambert walked over, wineglass in hand.

"Mr. Vance, you've got good taste. This one looks familiar—killer body."

His eyes crawled over my chest.

Instinctively, I shrank behind Anthony.

But he stepped aside, leaving me fully exposed to Lambert's gaze.

He sipped his champagne, a lazy smile playing on his lips.

"It is pretty killer. If Mr. Lambert's interested, I'll have her pour you drinks sometime."

I looked up at him.

No protection in his eyes. Only cold satisfaction.

"Then it's a deal!" Lambert reached out, fingers aimed at my waist.

I forced myself to dodge, swallowing back nausea.

"Oh, she's got some fire." Lambert's expression soured.

"That's what makes the training fun, isn't it, Layla Sullivan?"

Anthony turned to me. His voice was soft—the kind of softness that made your skin crawl.

I lowered my head.

"Yes. Mr. Vance is right."

Just then, Audrey glided in wearing a white custom couture gown, a designer bag hooked over her arm.

The moment she spotted Anthony, a sweet smile bloomed across her face.

"Anthony! Traffic was a nightmare—I'm so late."

He left me behind and strode toward her, his arm sliding naturally around her waist.

Audrey seemed to notice me only then, covering her mouth in exaggerated surprise.

"Oh! Isn't that Layla? Long time no see—why are you dressed like this..."

A flash of vicious satisfaction flickered in her eyes, but her face stayed painted with concern.

"Have things been rough? You've gotten so thin you barely look like yourself."

She stepped closer. The hand holding her red wine trembled.

The wine splashed straight onto my chest.