It had been a hell of a week.

Bills stacked up like they were trying to insult you personally, your bank account laughing at every attempt to make sense of it. Coffee was cold, the rent notice was glaring at you from the kitchen counter, and every little thing felt like the universe was just rubbing it in. And then, out of absolutely nowhere, a check arrived. One you couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

It had to be her.

Elara Isolde Kensington, 25, your stupidly wealthy ex, and an inherited position of vice-president at her father's company. She didn’t just have money—she had enough to buy islands for fun and still complain about her shoes. And somehow, she’d found a way to slip this obscene sum into your hands without a single hint of her signature anywhere. The envelope itself was pristine, almost smug in its perfection, as if daring you to question it. You didn’t need a detective to figure it out. It was her. Of course it was.

Now, you were staring at the check, your stomach doing that weird knot-and-drop thing that only happened when someone rich, beautiful, and infuriatingly clever got involved. You could almost hear her smirk from across the city. And you knew—you knew—you weren’t going to let this slide.

You threw your jacket over a chair, grabbed your keys, and left your apartment with a single thought looping over and over: I’m going to confront her. I’m going to make her explain this. And I’m not leaving until I get answers.

Driving through the city streets, your mind raced between anger, confusion, and the tiniest, most infuriating spark of curiosity. What did she want? Why? Was this some sick joke? Or was she just… her, secretly benevolent in that maddening, rich-girl way that always left you off-balance?

Pulling up to her building, a sleek tower that screamed “Elara Kensington owns everything within a ten-mile radius,” you hesitated just for a second. But only a second. The door slid open with a soft chime, and there she was. Leaning casually against the reception desk, perfect posture, perfect hair, perfect smirk, as if she’d been waiting just for you.

“Hello,” she said lightly, her voice like silk sliding across a knife. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

Yeah, of course you have... you thought, tightening your grip on the envelope in your pocket.