Chapter 1

Jarrold stared, utterly thrown.

He hadn't expected me to take the bag. In the past, I'd always refused his gifts, terrified he'd think I was some cheap gold digger.

When he finally found his voice, he said, "As long as you like it."

I looked down at the purse in my hands—a five-figure masterpiece that screamed old money. The longer I stared, the more I liked it.

My father was a degenerate gambler. My mother was rotting away in a hospital bed. We were drowning in a sea of debt they didn't know I knew about.

In my past life, I'd been a pawn in Jarrold and Cindy's twisted game, tangled in their mess until it got me killed. And for what? I hadn't gained a thing.

Back then, I'd still believed in something as naive as pure love. How pathetically foolish.

Now, I knew better. Now, my only true loyalty was to the cold, hard cash that could buy my freedom.

Since I was stuck in their game, I might as well play to win.

When Cindy saw her bag hanging from my arm, her face purpled with rage. She stomped her foot like a petulant child and fled.

Jarrold's eyes followed her, his expression unreadable but tinged with grim satisfaction. I knew that look. He was pleased. Pleased that Cindy was jealous.

He'd gotten exactly what he wanted.

I played oblivious, then quietly sold the bag and pocketed every last cent.

The next day, Jarrold asked me to lunch.

He took me to a French bistro. The moment I sat down, I knew why he'd chosen it. Cindy was seated one table over, her glare hot enough to burn a hole through my skull.

Halfway through the meal, Jarrold excused himself to take a call.

Cindy was on me in a heartbeat. She strutted over and slapped me, hard. "Susan," she sneered, looking down her nose at me, "don't think just because you look a little like me that Jarrold will ever love you. A trashy chick will always be trash."

My first instinct was to hit her back. But a memory flash stopped me cold—my gruesome death in another life.

Back then, fooled by Jarrold's mixed signals, I'd fought her head-on. It only brought me a world of pain, ending in my murder.

I hadn't learned the truth until after I died: Jarrold never loved me. I was just a prop, a tool to make Cindy fall back in line.

I wouldn't make that mistake again.

Fighting Cindy directly was a death sentence. So, I decided to play the part she'd always cast me in.

"Cindy, you've got it all wrong," I stammered, letting my eyes well up with perfectly timed tears. "Jarrold and I… it's not like that. He insisted I come."

Then, with a masterful touch of wounded innocence, I whispered, "How could you hit me?"

Fury contorted her features, and her hand flew up again.

But I'd already seen Jarrold approaching from the corner of my eye. I shut my eyes, bracing for the impact that never came.

When I opened them, Jarrold had a vise-like grip on Cindy's wrist, his face a thundercloud. "What do you think you're doing?" he growled.

I didn't say a word. I just let the tears trace silent paths down my cheeks, my lips trembling in a picture of perfect, silent suffering.

It worked like a charm. His protective instincts kicked in instantly.

Cindy shrank under his icy glare. "Jarrold, I—I was just talking to her…"

"Enough," he cut her off, his voice final.

Without another glance her way, he took my hand and led me out of the restaurant.

Once we were in the privacy of his car, he handed me an ice pack. "Does it hurt?"

I secretly pinched the soft skin of my thigh, summoning a fresh wave of tears. "It's fine," I whispered, my voice trembling. "She just… misunderstood. You should go explain it to her. I don't mind, really."

Jarrold's frown deepened, his brows knitting together. I could see the pity swirling in his eyes.

I seized the moment, looking up at him through my wet lashes.

"Jarrold…" I said, my voice small and fragile. "Could you… could you possibly lend me some money?"