I Cashed In On His Betrayal Chapter 2

I looked at Tristan.

His brow was furrowed, his eyes darting between us as if calculating the optics of the situation.

"One million dollars," he said, his voice flat. "Do as she says."

The tiny, pathetic flame of hope that had somehow survived in the darkest corner of my chest extinguished with a quiet hiss.

I pulled my gaze away from him, a bitter, mocking smile curving my lips.

"Sorry," I said, my voice echoing clearly off the high ceilings. "I have zero interest in participating in your sick little foreplay."

I walked out, not looking back.

I was almost to the street when a violent, shattering crash erupted from inside the ballroom—the sound of crystal glasses being swept off a table.

Then came Cathy’s piercing scream, laced with a trembling, hysterical sob: "Tristan! You’re just going to let her walk away?!"

I didn't turn around. But my footsteps, against my own will, faltered for just a fraction of a second in the cool night air.

Back at the sprawling glass-and-steel mansion, I stood in the foyer, staring at the space I had occupied for over a year.

I had lived here like a well-kept canary in a gilded cage. Tristan worked constantly, leaving early and coming home late. Most of the time, it was just me, the echoing silence, and closets full of haute couture I never asked for.

I walked upstairs and shoved only the absolute necessities into a single duffel bag.

Before I left, I hesitated by his mahogany desk. I grabbed a pen, tore off a sticky note, and scrawled a single line:

Tristan: I’m leaving. A body double should know when her scene is over. Me staying will only cause more friction between you and Cathy. Take care of yourself. —Brooke

I slapped the note onto the cover of the Forbes magazine he had been reading that morning, turned my back on the opulent prison, and walked out the door.

To say I didn't feel a pang of nostalgia would be a lie.

But the overwhelming emotion that washed over me was relief.

A profound, bone-deep relief that I had always known exactly what I was. I was a placeholder. I had never, not even for a second, allowed myself to actually fall in love with him.

[Oh, honey, you are way too naive...]

[If you could dodge a plot-mandated death this easily, it wouldn't be a thriller.]

[My heart breaks for her. She has no idea what’s coming.]

I knew I wouldn't get off that easy.

I just needed a few days—a brief window while Tristan was too distracted by his reunited first love to care about me—to set my disappearance in motion.

I rented a grim, cramped studio in a gritty neighborhood deep in Queens. It was chaotic, loud, and entirely devoid of security cameras. If Tristan wanted to find me here, he’d have to get his handmade Italian shoes very dirty.

Once the deadbolts were thrown, I cracked open my laptop and started searching.

High-end replica jewelry artisans NYC

Early stage radiation poisoning symptoms

List of corrupt radiologists/oncologists tri-state area

[??? Wait, what is she doing?]

[Is she getting a replica made? To fake the illness?]

[Genius! Turn the white moonlight’s “gift” into a murder weapon! Let’s see Cathy play the victim now!]

[But a real doctor won't fake a medical report. She needs someone dirty.]

I scrolled through page after page, my fingers flying across the keyboard into the early hours of the morning.

By sunrise, wearing oversized sunglasses and a medical mask, I walked into a dingy jewelry repair shop wedged between a failing auto mechanic and a dive bar on the outskirts of the borough.

The owner was a grizzled man in his fifties, chewing on an unlit cigar, looking at me with absolute apathy.

I slapped a printed photograph of the choker onto the scratched glass counter. "I need an exact replica. Real diamonds, identical craftsmanship."

He picked up the photo, squinted at it, and then looked me up and down. "Lady, this ain't a mall kiosk job. Real stones, this kind of setting? You're looking at a couple hundred grand, minimum."

I unzipped my bag, pulled out two thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills, and slid them across the glass. "This is the deposit. Name your final price. I don't care what it costs."

He flicked the cigar to the side of his mouth and grinned. "You got it. Give me three days."

For the next forty-eight hours, I did a deep dive on every chief radiologist and oncologist in the city's private and public hospitals.

The doctor I needed had to meet three exact criteria:

One: Extensive experience with radiation patients, to forge an airtight medical file.

Two: Desperate for cash, or harboring a massive, career-ending secret.

Three: Good at keeping their mouth shut.

I narrowed it down to three targets.

Dr. Harris: 45, deputy head of radiology at a public hospital. Wife in hospice, drowning in medical debt.

Dr. Evans: 38, oncologist at an elite private clinic. Rumored to take massive kickbacks from pharmaceutical reps to push experimental drugs.

Dr. Miller: 52, came out of retirement to pay off his son's staggering gambling debts to a local syndicate.

I planned to make contact in the morning.

I was just closing my laptop, eyes burning with exhaustion, when the space in front of me erupted in frantic, flashing red text.

[ALARM! ALARM! ALARM!]

[WAKE UP! YOU NEED TO RUN!]

[Spoiler alert: Cathy just stabbed herself! Half an hour ago!]

[She's in the ER right now telling everyone YOU did it!]

[Tristan is already on his way to your apartment! He bought it!]

[HE BELIEVES HER!!!]

[RUN, BROOKE, RUN!!!]

The blood in my veins turned to ice.

I didn't move. I couldn't.

Because I knew, with sickening clarity, that I couldn't outrun the author's pen.