Chapter 3

"Was that waitress a friend of yours?" Zach kept close as we walked, his voice strained. "I don't remember you talking about her before."

"What's the big deal?" I shot Zach a half-smile and said breezily, "It's not like you know every single one of my friends."

He shifted uncomfortably and said, a little awkwardly, "I was just curious. I mean, she's just a waitress—"

I cut him off. "So? She graduated from Alveron University."

I was heading back to the private room when Zach suddenly said, "Babe, I'm not feeling well. Maybe I should go home."

"What's bothering you?" I arched an eyebrow. "You're actually bailing on my birthday?"

I knew why Zach didn't want to return to the private room. Someone had already texted me about it.

He and Jacob had gotten me bracelets in the same style for my birthday. But as luck would have it, Jacob's was real, and Zach's was a cheap knockoff.

On their own, they looked almost the same. But put them side by side, and the difference was glaring. One was a high-end piece covered in diamonds, the other a bare-bones replica.

"It's fine. Your health comes first. Go ahead," I said with a faint smile, waving him off.

Zach breathed out in obvious relief. I watched him walk away before turning and heading back to the private room at a leisurely pace.

"Lene, come sit with me." Jacob tugged me down next to him and lowered his voice. "That boyfriend of yours is total trash—ugly, stingy, and honestly? Dating him is just staining your reputation."

"He's Shirley's ex. Trust me, if he weren't, I wouldn't give him the time of day," I murmured, leaning in to settle him. "Just stick it out for a few days. Once everything's handled, we won't have to hide anymore."

Jacob gave a resigned nod. The thing was, we'd been together for three years, but thanks to Shirley's bizarre trade system, we had to stay under the radar.

So far, I'd kept up the high-society act without getting caught. It wasn't just my acting skills—Jacob had been picking up the tab most of the time.

Jacob and I were whispering back and forth when Shirley's Instagram follow request popped up.

The message read, "Lene, it's Shirley."

I followed her without really thinking, but she never messaged me again. I had a pretty good idea what she was up to.

Before long, a notification popped up on my screen. She'd liked my latest post—the one with photos of all the extravagant gifts my friends had showered me with, each stamped with those iconic luxury logos.

In the pictures, I was sitting in the middle of all those stacked-up gifts, smiling like I'd just won the lottery.

It looked like I was flaunting my wealth, and honestly, I was. This was the persona I'd carefully crafted, and I knew Shirley would eat it up.

"Lene, I'm so sorry. I forgot today was your birthday, and I didn't even get you a gift."

I skimmed Shirley's text and replied, "Don't sweat it. Just seeing each other again is the best gift."

Shirley went quiet for a moment. Then out of nowhere, she asked, "Do you like cake? I'm actually a decent baker. I could whip one up now and bring it over."

"Nah, it's too late for that," I texted. After a quick pause, I sent her my address. "But I'm having a thank-you party at my place tomorrow with a ton of friends. You should come by."