I glanced at my phone screen, where an email notification showed a seven-figure offer for film rights to my children’s book series. Don’t actually work. If he only knew. But let me take you back to how we got here, because this moment of pure arrogance was built on fifteen years of careful deception. Not mine, but his.
I was 22 and desperately broke when Thomas first noticed me in a cramped coffee shop near campus. My art supplies were spread across a tiny table while I worked on portfolio pieces. He appeared beside me without warning. “That’s remarkable,” he said, pointing to a drawing. He was handsome, in that clean-cut, confident way that usually intimidated me. “I’m Thomas,” he said, sliding into the opposite chair. “And you’re incredibly talented.”
