Chapter 3: Secrets and Status

Jason lounged back, swirling his wine glass, his gaze going flat as he looked at the guy who’d just insulted me.

The whole table went quiet, eyes on Jason like he was the only stock that mattered. In this crowd, money could buy almost anything, but respect was harder to earn—and Jason Carter had plenty to spare.

All Chicago’s golden sons watched Jason—no one dared cross him.

“Jason, I drank too much. I shouldn’t have said anything bad about Rachel.”

Matt Williams, from up north, smacked himself, red blooming on his cheek. He stammered apologies, eyes wide and scared.

A few others tried to smooth things over, voices low.

“Dude, she’s a researcher at Northwestern. Who are you to judge?”

When Matt’s face was puffy and red, Jason finally spoke, sounding amused. “That’s enough.”

“You’re Williams, right? The pharma family?”

Matt nodded so fast he almost fell over.

Jason leaned in, cheek to palm, glass raised like he was about to make a toast.

“Northwestern’s latest research—”

“Jason, I get it. Thanks for letting me show respect to Rachel.”

Matt jumped in, voice shaking, eager to fix things before it got worse.

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I drifted home through a haze, the city a blur. Lights smeared, and Jason’s words looped through my mind like a song I couldn’t turn off.

“That girl is clueless, deserves to be tricked.”

“Three years ago, Jason lost a bet and pretended to be a male escort at a karaoke bar.”

“The women before her all knew it was a joke—she was the only one who believed.”

So naïve.

Didn’t realize the holey sweater was Balenciaga, a flex not a struggle. Didn’t know that battered silver watch was a Richard Mille, worth more than my yearly salary.

He told me stories about a gambling dad and a sick mom, and I saw my own family in his. I thought we were the same—two people carrying too much for too long.

Looking at him—so heartbreakingly beautiful, like he belonged in a movie—I felt nothing but tenderness. Foolish, soft-hearted, and all in.

But I never saw the calculations, the game he was playing.

[Tsk, idiot, you really believed all that?]

I threw myself into helping him, begging him to clean up, get a job. I even pulled strings to get him an interview at a halfway decent office.

My research assistant paycheck barely covered rent, but I spent what I had on a suit for him. Meanwhile, I wore the same hand-me-down trench coat, its hem fraying every winter, for three years.

He’d flash that lazy, teasing smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Pretty girl treats me so well, I have to pay her back.”

He’d pull me close, warm and needy and a little reckless—like he couldn’t believe his luck.

A twenty-year-old guy, tasting something sweet for the first time, unable to stop. The walls of our old rental so thin that every whisper, every laugh, felt like it echoed into the night.

Every time, I’d end up begging for mercy, cheeks burning, before he finally let me go—both of us tangled in sheets and regret.

He was heartbreakingly handsome, loved to act helpless, loved to cook midnight grilled cheese on our ancient stove.

I really thought we’d last. That we’d grow old together, making up for what our parents never gave us.

I even picked up two extra jobs—tutoring calculus, bartending at a Logan Square dive—just to save for a ring. I wanted to propose on the anniversary of our first Cubs game.