Five Years Later, My Billionaire Ex Begged on His Knees

The oncology wing of Long Island General Hospital at 3 AM felt like death itself. I sat on a plastic chair, clutching Mom's test results with sweaty hands.

"Miss Moreau?" Dr. Harrison walked toward me with that practiced sympathy look that made me sick.

"Your mother's condition... the cancer has metastasized. We need experimental treatment immediately."

Experimental treatment. The words echoed in my head.

"How much does it cost?"

"Five hundred thousand. Insurance covers two hundred, but the remaining..."

"Three hundred thousand." My voice sounded hollow.

He nodded. "Without treatment, maybe three months."

Three fucking months.

"I'll figure something out," I said, standing on shaky legs.

In Mom's room, she was sleeping. Chemo had stolen her hair; now she wore a cheap Goodwill wig. Her face was twisted in pain even in sleep.

I took her paper-thin hand. "Mom, I can't lose you."

She stirred, managing a weak smile. "Baby, why aren't you sleeping?"

"The doctor says you need more treatment."

"Delphine," she whispered, "maybe this is just fate."

"No. I'll find a way."

Three hours later, I sat at our kitchen table surrounded by bills. Every piece of paper screamed how broke we were.

I started making calls.

"Aunt Mary? I need to borrow money for Mom's surgery..."

"Sweetie, we're struggling ourselves. Jim got laid off..."

Seven calls. Seven rejections. Everyone had their own problems.

The bank was worse: "Given your credit history and lack of collateral, we cannot approve this loan."

Three months. That's all the time I have.

I remembered the job posting: Blue Moon bar hiring servers, generous tips. Hampton's most exclusive bar.

Friday night, I stood outside Blue Moon in a too-tight thrift store dress. Inside, expensive lighting cast shadows over men in thousand-dollar suits and women dripping diamonds. The air smelled like champagne and money.

"Smile, listen, don't cause trouble," the manager told me. "These customers spend more in an hour than you'll make in a month."

For three hours, I was invisible furniture. People grabbed drinks from my hands without acknowledgment. One woman made me clean her deliberately spilled wine, then complained about my speed.

I took it all. For Mom.

Heading back for another tray, a hand grabbed my wrist.

"Scarlett! What the fuck are you doing in a place like this?"

I spun around. Tall guy, early thirties, classic East Coast elite - sandy hair, blue eyes, custom suit, entitled expression. Drunk and furious.

"Sir, you've got the wrong person. I'm Delphine, not Scarlett."

He squinted, suddenly loosening his grip. "Jesus Christ... you look exactly like her."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"What's your name?"

"Delphine Moreau."

"Moreau..." he repeated. "You need money, right?"

I froze. "What?"

"People working here usually need money badly. I have a proposition."

Ten minutes later, I sat in his black Rolls-Royce.

"I'm Caspian Ashford. I need a personal assistant."

"What kind of assistant?"

"Someone to accompany me to social events. Charity galas, business meetings... occasions requiring a female companion."

"That doesn't sound like assistant work."

He smiled dangerously. "An assistant who looks like a specific someone."

"You want me to impersonate someone?"

"Not exactly. You'd still be you, just... certain people might find you familiar."

"This is weird, Mr. Ashford."

"Very weird. But the compensation is generous."

He wrote a check and handed it to me.

Three hundred thousand dollars.

"This is too much," I whispered.

"Not for me. For you?"

I thought about Mom, the three-month deadline, everyone who'd refused to help.

"What exactly are you asking?"

"Simple. When I need you, you appear. Wear what I tell you, go where I take you, say what I tell you."

"This sounds like prostitution."

"Maybe. But it's your only shot at making this money quickly."

Mom needs this.

"How long?"

"One year."

"What if I want out?"

"Pay back every penny, plus interest."

No escape clause. Classic devil's deal.

"I want a written contract."

"I've been looking for the right person for months," he said, pulling out papers from his briefcase. "My lawyer drafted this agreement in advance, just in case I found someone suitable." He handed me the documents. I skimmed through - one year term, no violations, breach meant paying back everything plus thirty percent interest. Confidentiality clauses.

Above the signature line: "Party B understands services may include social companionship, image representation, duties determined by Party A as needed."

Social companionship. Fancy words for "fake girlfriend."

"If I sign this, I belong to you?"

"During work hours, yes." His eyes went cold. "You won't just represent yourself anymore."

I picked up the pen, hand trembling.

What am I doing...

But Mom only had three months without this money.

I signed.

Caspian handed me the check immediately. "Tomorrow, ten AM. We need to repackage your image."

"Repackage?"

"Hair, makeup, clothes... your current look isn't suitable for Hampton social events."

His words stung, but pride was a luxury I couldn't afford.

"Remember," he said as I got out, "you belong to me now."

I spent the longest night of my life clutching that check, watching the clock crawl toward morning. At exactly 8 AM when the hospital's finance office opened, I was the first person through the door, my hands shaking as I scheduled Mom's surgery for Monday.

When I got back to her room, Mom was half-awake.

"Where did you get surgery money?" she asked when I told her.

"New job. Personal assistant, really good pay."

Technically not a lie.

"What kind of person pays an assistant that much?"

"A businessman. Very wealthy. Don't worry, everything's okay."

She stared at me, then nodded. "As long as you're safe."

Safe.

If she knew I'd just sold myself to some guy obsessed with a woman named Scarlett, would she think I was safe?

Too late now. Contract signed, money paid, treatment scheduled.

I watched the sky lighten outside, wondering where this deal would take me.