You Chose Your Mistress, I Chose Goodbye

Jimmy was supposed to marry me. But the day after I supposedly "hurt" his adored step-sister Mirasol, he tossed a ledger in front of me like I was garbage. "Pick it up. Read it." Inside were line items for everything he'd ever bought me—clothes, gifts, every moment I'd mistaken for affection—all reduced to a price tag. "You owe me 52 million. One month to pay." That's when it hit me: I was never really his fiancée. I was just a stand-in for the person he actually loved—his step-sister.

Then it got uglier. People laughed. "Fifty-two million? Simple—just drink all these, Iris." Jimmy didn't stop them. He just watched while I drank, glass after glass, my throat on fire, wrecking myself for money to save my father. "Please," I begged, barely able to stand, "you gave me your word—" "Give her the money," Jimmy finally said. "Consider it charity."

I grabbed the cash and ran, believing I'd made it in time. "It's already been paid," I told the doctor, frantic. "Please—save him." But he just looked at me with pity. "I'm so sorry. Mr. Jimmy gave the order to stop treatment."

A single flatline ended my whole world. I buried my father that day. And I buried the version of me that had ever loved Jimmy. Then I picked up the phone. "Professor, I've decided. I'm in—sign me up for the research project."