The hospital waiting room smelled like disinfectant and broken dreams. I'd been sitting in the same plastic chair for six hours, my fingers numb from clutching my phone, waiting for Marcus to call me back. He'd promised he'd be here. He always promised. My mother had been gone for three days now, and I still couldn't breathe properly. The funeral director needed answers. Decisions. Money. Always money. I scrolled through my bank account again, watching the numbers blur through my tears. Forty-three thousand dollars. That's what remained of the trust fund my mother had left me. The same trust fund that had once held over two million dollars. Where had it all gone? I knew exactly where it had gone. Marcus's flower shop. His dream. Our dream, he'd called it, back when his eyes still lit up when he saw me, back when he'd pull me close and whisper that we were building something beautiful together. "Miss Chen?" The funeral director approached with sympathetic eyes that had seen too many grieving daughters. "Have you made a decision about the arrangements?" I nodded, my throat tight. "The modest package. I'll wire the payment tonight." Modest. My mother deserved so much more than modest. She deserved everything. Instead, she'd get a simple service because her daughter had been stupid enough to believe in love. My phone finally buzzed. Relief flooded through me until I read the message. *Can't make it today, babe. Emergency at the shop. You understand, right? Love you.* I stared at those words until they stopped making sense. Emergency at the shop. There was always an emergency at the shop. Three years. Three years of emergencies. I typed back with shaking fingers: *My mother just died.* The reply came instantly: *I know, and I'm so sorry. But if I don't handle this, we'll lose everything. I'm doing this for us.* For us. Always for us. I took an Uber back to my apartment—our apartment, technically, though Marcus had been staying at the shop more nights than not lately. The lease was in my name. Everything was in my name. Marcus's credit had been destroyed by the first bankruptcy. The first bankruptcy. God, I'd been so naive. I remembered that day two years ago when Marcus had come home with tears streaming down his face, explaining how his business partner had embezzled money, how the shop was drowning in debt, how he was going to lose everything unless someone could cover the losses. "It's only three hundred thousand," he'd said, holding my hands like I was his lifeline. "I know it's a lot, but I can pay you back within a year. The shop is finally taking off. We're getting corporate contracts. This is just bad timing." I'd sold my grandmother's vintage jewelry collection. Pieces that had been in my family for generations, liquidated at an estate sale for a fraction of their worth because we needed the money fast. He'd kissed me like I was his savior. "I'll spend the rest of my life making this up to you." Six months later, there was a second bankruptcy. A supplier had sued them. More bad luck. More bad timing. This time, it was four hundred thousand dollars. I'd sold the property my mother had left me—a small cottage upstate that I'd planned to retire in someday. The real estate market was down, but we needed cash immediately. "This is the last time," Marcus had sworn, his forehead pressed against mine. "I promise you, Aria. Never again." And I'd believed him. Because I loved him. Because three years together meant something. Because he looked at me like I was the only person in the world who mattered. Now, standing in our empty apartment, I felt the weight of my stupidity crushing my chest. My phone rang. Marcus. "Hey, babe," his voice sounded strained. Tired. "Look, I need to talk to you about something." Here it comes, I thought. Another emergency. Another disaster. "There's been a problem with one of our suppliers. Legal issues. The shop is liable for—" He paused, and I heard him take a shaky breath. "It's one point five million, Aria." The room tilted. "What?" "I know. I know. It's insane. But there's a way out of this. If we file bankruptcy again, we can restructure, and—" "No." The word came out flat. Dead. "Aria, please. If we don't handle this, they'll come after everything. They could come after your assets too since we're—" "We're what, Marcus? We're not married. We're not even engaged anymore." I'd stopped wearing the promise ring he'd given me months ago. I couldn't remember when. "Don't be like that. We're a team. We're building a life together. I just need you to trust me one more time." Trust. That word used to mean something. "I need to think," I said. "There's no time to think. They need an answer by Friday, or they're filing a lawsuit that will destroy both of us." "I said I need to think." I hung up. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the phone. One point five million dollars. I didn't have one point five million dollars. I'd already given him everything. I sank onto the couch, and that's when I saw it. Marcus's tablet, wedged between the cushions. He must have left it the last time he was here. I pulled it out, intending to text him that he'd forgotten it. The screen lit up, unlocked, open to his messages. I should have closed it. Should have respected his privacy. But something made me look. The most recent conversation was with someone named "J. Wellington." *Marcus: She's asking questions. Getting suspicious.* *J. Wellington: Then close the deal. How much can you get this time?* *Marcus: At least 1.5. She's got access to what's left of her mother's estate. Funeral expenses will make her vulnerable. She'll want to lean on me.* *J. Wellington: Beautiful. Same split as before?* *Marcus: 60/40 in my favor this time. I'm doing all the emotional labor.* I stopped breathing. My vision tunneled as I scrolled up, my heart hammering against my ribs. Months of messages. Years of messages. Screenshots of my bank statements that Marcus had photographed when I wasn't looking. Conversations with multiple people—J. Wellington, someone named Tristan, another named Sebastian. *Sebastian: How's our little piggy bank holding up?* *Marcus: Better than expected. She sold her grandmother's jewelry without even checking the actual value. The Cartier pieces alone were worth 2 mil. We got them for 300k.* *Tristan: You're an artist, man. When are you going to let her in on the joke?* *Marcus: Why would I? She's good for at least another round. Her dad's loaded even if they don't speak. If I play this right, I can get her to reconcile with him and tap into that trust fund.* *J. Wellington: The long con. I respect it. Same bet stands? I've got 50k that says you can't get a million out of her.* *Marcus: Make it a hundred thousand. I'll have 1.5 by Friday.* The tablet slipped from my hands. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. But the messages kept loading as I scrolled. Photos of me, sleeping, unaware. Screenshots of texts where I told Marcus I loved him, with laughing emojis as responses from his friends. *Marcus: Watch this. I'm going to tell her I love her family values.* Below it, a video. I clicked with numb fingers. It was Marcus, at what looked like an expensive restaurant, wearing a watch I'd never seen before. A Patek Philippe. I knew because my father wore the same one. Twenty million dollars on his wrist. "To the art of the con," he was saying, raising a glass of champagne that probably cost more than my monthly rent. "And to Aria Chen, the gift that keeps on giving." Everyone at the table laughed. Wealthy-looking men and women in designer clothes, toasting to my stupidity. I ran to the bathroom and vomited until there was nothing left.