Paid to Steal His Heir

I was a gold digger, but an unrefined one. At high-end dinners, I didn't understand vintage years; I only cared if the lighting was good enough for photos. When gifted luxury boxes, I never paused to savor the unwrapping; the moment I turned a corner, I was already searching for the nearest high-end consignment boutique. Even my seduction lacked finesse. I had no sophisticated games, only flushed cheeks, a bitten lower lip, and tears that gathered obediently at the rims of my eyes. Yet Chase Archer—the most reckless, untouchable playboy in Manhattan’s elite circle—cleared his entire black book for me. Everyone whispered that the rake had finally been reformed. They said the unassuming, naive little girl had walked away with the ultimate prize. Then came the sudden news: Chase’s accounts had been frozen overnight. He claimed he didn't even have enough change left for a greasy dollar slice. With bloodshot eyes, he had pulled me close and asked, "Leah, I went from a ten-figure trust fund to two dollars in my pocket. Are you still going to stay?" I wept, clutching his hand, swearing through my tears that I would bus tables and wash dishes just to keep him fed. That was until tonight. I went to his private club to bring him his prescription stomach pills, only to stop outside the heavy mahogany door. Through the crack, laughter spilled into the corridor. "Chase, did that little country mouse actually buy it?" Chase’s tone was smooth, indifferent, soaked in effortless arrogance. "She believes anything I tell her." Margo, his childhood friend who had just returned from Paris, chimed in with a laugh as she pulled out her phone. "Place your bets, everyone. With zero dollars to his name, how long can this girl keep playing the devoted martyr?" The room erupted as chips clattered onto the table, everyone mocking me, betting I wouldn't last seventy-two hours before my true colors showed. Outside in the dim hallway, my eyes stung, but my tears didn't fall. I dropped the bottle of expensive imported medicine straight into the nearest trash can. Then, quietly opening my purse, I pulled out a small safety pin and methodically punctured every foil-wrapped condom in the pack. Bankrupt? Let him play his little game. What Chase didn't know was that weeks ago, I had signed a one-hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar childbearing contract with his mother. The moment I secured an Archer heir, I was cashing out and walking away with a fortune of my own. When you're holding a nine-figure ticket, who gives a damn whether he’s a billionaire or a broke fraud? ... 1 "Did you get the pills?" The moment I pushed open the heavy mahogany door of the VIP suite, Chase’s drawling voice drifted toward me through the haze of cigar smoke. The raucous laughter in the room cut off instantly. Across the low marble table, Margo casually flipped her phone facedown, but not before I caught the bright glow of a live poll—a bar chart tracking how long I would keep up the charade. I kept my head down, tucking the sabotaged condoms deep into the bottom of my bag, clutching nothing in my hand except an empty, wrinkled brown paper bag. "I checked three pharmacies," I whispered, pitching my voice to sound small, timid, and carrying just the right note of helpless exhaustion. "They were all closed." The truth was, that imported prescription had hit the bottom of the hallway trash can ten minutes ago. If you’re playing the role of a broke man, you should suffer like one. Why waste a three-hundred-dollar bottle of imported medication when a glass of tap water is free? Chase lounged deep in the corner of the velvet sectional, his long fingers absentmindedly twirling an empty crystal tumbler. He didn't even bother lifting his chin. "Whatever. Doesn't matter." His tone was detached, cool—as if he hadn't just been leading the room in laughing at my expense moments earlier. Trent sat beside him, swirling a glass of amber scotch, his mouth curling into a condescending smirk. "Well, well. Look who took her sweet time. Chase is down on his luck, and our sweet little Leah can’t even spare a few bucks for his stomach medicine?" A ripple of knowing chuckles drifted through the room. Pretending not to register the venom, I quickly walked over, poured a cup of warm water from the carafe, and held it out with both hands, offering it to Chase like a lifeline. "Chase, drink some warm water. It helps soothe the pain, I promise." My eyes were rimmed with pink, the tears trembling on the edge of my lashes. "I still have a couple of hundred dollars left in my checking account. First thing tomorrow morning, I'll walk across town and get that slow-cooked broth you like, okay?" Chase stared at the cheap glass in my hands, his brow knitting into a faint, reflexive scowl. He despised the plainness of it; he despised how ordinary, how hopelessly poor it looked. Still, he took it. He set it down on the glass table without taking a single sip. "Leah, all my cards are blocked," he said, fixing his gaze on my face like an investigator looking for the first crack in a counterfeit painting. "I can't even settle the tab for this room tonight. I’m down to pennies. I might not even be able to buy you a sandwich tomorrow." I drew in a shaky breath, letting a single, perfect tear spill down my cheek. "It doesn't matter. I’ll bus tables at a diner. I’ll do whatever it takes to support you, as long as you don't think I’m too stupid." I buried my face in my hands, crying softly while my mind ran cold, precise calculations. God, this act was exhausting. If it weren't for the nine-figure settlement promised by his mother, Constance Archer, I wouldn't have wasted another five minutes pretending to be an infatuated idiot. Margo, sitting on Chase’s other side, let out an amused, airy laugh. She looked impeccable in a minimalist ivory haute couture dress, the jade cuff on her wrist gleaming with unmistakable, generational wealth. "Leah really is a saint," Margo said, her voice dripping with sweet, patronizing pity. She reached down, picked up a matte white Himalayan crocodile Kelly bag from the cushion, and pushed it into the center of the table. "Though bussing tables sounds terribly dreary. Look, this bag is from last season, but if you take it to a luxury consignment shop on Madison, they’ll easily wire you sixty or seventy grand." She watched me closely, her smile razor-sharp beneath the polished veneer. "Take it. Cover his expenses for a while. Consider it my little favor to help Chase through a rough patch." The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. Every set of eyes locked onto me. They all knew my background. They knew I didn't come from old money, that I frequented luxury resale shops, that I was, by their standards, a tacky, opportunistic social climber. If I took the bag, it would instantly prove I was nothing more than a shallow parasite whose devotion evaporated at the first sight of cash. If I refused it, it would completely shatter the uneducated, desperate persona I had built from day one. Chase said nothing. He simply leaned back, his cold eyes pinned on me. He was waiting for me to humiliate myself. Dabbing at my cheeks with the sleeve of my cheap sweater, I looked at the pristine, pale crocodile leather with a look of pure, bewildered innocence. "Margo... it's so white. Wouldn't it get dirty really easily?" Margo blinked, caught entirely off guard by the sheer banality of the question. "And..." I bit my lip, ducking my head in visible embarrassment, "there isn't even a big logo on the outside. If I take it to a resale store, won't they just think it's a knockoff and refuse to give me any money?" A dead, suffocating silence fell over the room. Two seconds later, Trent was the first to choke on his drink, bursting into a snort of laughter. Within moments, the rest of the circle was smirking behind their napkins. Margo’s poised expression froze, a flicker of pure, unadulterated disgust flashing behind her eyes. "You really have a unique sense of humor, Leah. Never mind, then." She pulled the rare bag back toward herself, looking at me as if I were a stray dog too stupid to recognize a gold coin. The mocking glint in Chase’s eyes deepened. He pinched the bridge of his nose, seemingly drained of whatever amusement I had once provided him. "Alright, that’s enough embarrassment for one night." He stood up, grabbing his bespoke coat off the sofa, his tone flat and dismissive. "Go pay the bill. I’m out of funds." He looked at me, issuing the command as though it were the most natural thing in the world. I froze on the spot, twisting the hem of my worn knit sweater between trembling fingers. "B-but... I only have three hundred dollars left in my account." Trent leaned forward, grinning with cruelty. "Three hundred? Honey, three hundred wouldn't even cover the bottle of San Pellegrino in this place. Didn't you just swear you’d do dishes to support him? Maybe you should stay behind tonight and scrub the bar sinks to pay off his tab." Raucous laughter echoed through the suite once more. Heat flooded my cheeks, and fresh tears gathered in my eyes. Right on cue, Margo slipped a black Centurion card from her designer clutch and slid it across the tray with a gracious sigh. "Don't pick on her, guys. Tonight’s on me." She looked up at Chase, her smile warm and intimate. "Come on, Chase. Let me drive you back to your place." Chase didn't refuse. He didn't even spare me a glance as he turned on his heel and strode toward the door. I trailed behind them like an unwanted shadow, silent and pathetic. When we stepped out onto the curbside, a gust of late-autumn wind sliced through the street, making me shiver violently in my thin coat. Margo unlocked her Porsche, opened the passenger door, and then paused, looking back at me with an apologetic, theatrical pout. "Oh, Leah, I’m so sorry. The coupe only has two seats. I don't think there's room for you." She offered a delicate, poisonous little smile. "You don't mind taking the subway back, do you?" 2 I stood on the cold stone steps, watching the sleek silver Porsche merge into the downtown traffic. The crimson streak of its taillights cut through the darkness, leaving me stranded in the freezing midnight wind. The club’s doorman looked right through me, the condescending pity in his eyes unmistakable. I sniffled, wrapped my thin, unbranded coat tightly around myself, and turned toward the subway entrance. Take a cab? In my current role, I was a girl with barely three hundred dollars to her name. A cab fare was a luxury I couldn't possibly justify. The midnight train was nearly empty. I found a corner seat, letting the rhythmic rattle of the tracks vibrate through the metal frame, and rested a palm instinctively over my flat stomach. Lately, a persistent nausea had settled behind my ribs, accompanied by an overwhelming fatigue. My cycle was already a week late. Constance Archer’s wager was finally about to yield returns. Chase’s so-called "bankruptcy" was nothing more than a rich boy’s experiment in slumming it. He had vacated his soaring penthouse in Tribeca and rented a run-down, two-bedroom apartment out on the edge of the borough—an exercise in what he considered raw, gritty tragedy. When I pushed open the peeling front door, Chase was already sitting on the sunken fabric sofa. The apartment had no central heating, and sitting there in his crisp, fine-gauge dress shirt, he looked completely absurd. "What took you so long?" he asked, not looking up from his phone, his irritation barely veiled. "The train... I had to transfer twice." I slipped out of my sneakers, picked up a damp rag from the counter, and began diligently wiping down the thin layer of dust on the coffee table. Back when Chase was pursuing me, he had rented out an entire rooftop garden overlooking the Hudson. Under a private fireworks show, he had tossed my old phone into the water, bought me a new one, and promised he would clear out every socialite in his contacts just to be with me. Back then, he played the role of a savior swooping down into a modern-day fairy tale. Now that his manufactured halo had cracked, he wanted to drag me down into the mud just to watch me struggle. "I’m hungry," he murmured, his voice cold as he watched me clean. I paused, turning around with my hands nervously clasped. "There’s nothing in the fridge. Should I run down to the corner bodega and get you a sandwich?" He let out a dry, mocking laugh. "Is that your grand plan for keeping me fed? Bodega sandwiches?" I lowered my eyes, shrinking under his scrutiny. "I’m sorry, Chase. I’ll go find a job first thing tomorrow." ... The next morning, I left the apartment at dawn. Naturally, I wasn't looking for a waitressing gig. I took a car straight to an exclusive private hospital on the Upper East Side. Blood draws, ultrasound scans, the whole battery of tests. While waiting for the lab results, I sat on a bench in the private courtyard for a long time. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Margo. An attached photo showed Chase seated at an opulent French restaurant, a perfectly seared cut of prime wagyu resting on the porcelain plate before him. Across the table, Margo beamed at the camera, radiant and polished. The caption read: "Chase has such a delicate stomach; cheap deli food will ruin his health. Leah, if you can’t take proper care of him, perhaps you shouldn't force yourself." Staring at the screen, my lips curved into a cold, quiet smile. Bankrupt, was he? Supposedly unable to afford a cheap diner meal, yet he was dining on tasting menus with his childhood sweetheart behind my back. I slipped the phone back into my pocket without typing a single word in reply. That afternoon, the preliminary lab report came through. The doctor confirmed early signs of pregnancy, but instructed me to return in a few days to verify that the hCG levels were doubling appropriately. I carefully folded the paper and tucked it into the hidden inner pocket of my coat. By the time I returned to the dingy apartment, the sun was already slipping below the horizon. The living room light was on, and the heavy aroma of garlic butter and roasted meat drifted out from the kitchen. When I opened the door, Margo was sitting at the battered kitchen table. She was wearing a tailored tweed set that looked ridiculously out of place against the peeling wallpaper. Spread across the table were several sleek, insulated containers bearing the gold-embossed logo of a three-Michelin-star restaurant. "Oh, Leah's back," Margo said with effortless sweetness. "I brought Chase some dinner. Since you weren't here, I took the liberty of setting it up." Chase sat across from her, holding a pair of polished utensils, looking remarkably more refreshed than the night before. "Where were you?" he asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Looking... looking for work." I stood near the entryway, clumsily toeing off my shoes. "Did you find anything?" "Yes. A small cafe near the park. Twelve dollars an hour plus tips." The lie rolled off my tongue without hesitation, delivered with the meekest, most fragile posture I could muster. Margo covered her mouth, letting out a soft, pitying giggle. "Twelve dollars an hour? That wouldn't even cover the espresso Chase drinks in the morning." She leaned over, placing a delicate slice of poached fish onto Chase’s plate. "Chase, don't be too hard on her. People from her background... earning that much is already an accomplishment for them." The slight was as blatant as a slap in the face. I said nothing. I walked quietly to the counter, pulled a clean plate from the cupboard, and pulled up a chair. The moment I sat down, a sudden, violent wave of nausea slammed into my throat. The rich, buttery scent of the truffled sauce hit my senses like poison. Gagging, I slapped a hand over my mouth, shoved the chair back, and sprinted into the tiny bathroom. Kneeling before the toilet, dry heaves racked my chest, bringing nothing up but bitter air. Involuntary tears tracked down my cheeks from the physical strain. Footsteps stopped at the threshold behind me. Chase stood in the doorway, towering over me, his gaze freezing and sharp. "What is your problem?" His voice carried the bite of winter frost. "Margo went out of her way to bring food, and you put on a performance like it repulses you?" Gripping the edge of the porcelain sink, I pulled myself up and rinsed my mouth under the tap. "No... I'm sorry. My stomach is just really upset." "Stop lying," he sneered. "If you hate living here, if you're resentful that the food didn't come from your pathetic twelve-dollar-an-hour wage, just say it. Don't throw a temper tantrum in front of me." I stared at my pale, hollow reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. To a man whose heart was never yours, even illness was an unforgivable offense. I turned around, forcing the edges of my mouth upward into a faint, appeasing smile. "Chase, I’m really not resentful. I’m just... tired." 3 I didn't eat a single bite of that dinner. Before Margo left that night, she left an embossed business card sitting casually on the worn coffee table. "Leah, if you genuinely want to help Chase out, give this number a call," she said, her eyes gleaming with the cruel thrill of victory. "It’s a promoter at an upscale nightclub in the Meatpacking District. Bottle service girls make fast cash." She lingered on the words "fast cash", letting the implication settle between us. Chase remained slouched on the couch, flicking his heavy metal lighter open and shut. The tiny flame flared and died, casting shifting shadows across his handsome, unreadable face. He didn't stop her. He didn't say a word. His silence was an explicit endorsement. I walked over, picked up the card, read the embossed script carefully, and slipped it into my pocket. "Thank you, Margo," I murmured, my voice as docile as an obedient dog's. Margo’s mouth twitched with mild disappointment at my lack of resistance, and with a faint shrug, she turned and walked out. Over the next few days, I left early and came home late. Chase assumed I had swallowed my pride and taken the bottle service job. The look in his eyes grew colder by the day, hardening into a sharp, visible contempt. In reality, I spent every waking hour inside a private estate in Greenwich arranged by Constance Archer. There, an entire team of private obstetricians and nutritionists tended to my every need. Until the day of my follow-up appointment. Standing in the quiet corridor of the clinic, holding the official ultrasound confirmation, my fingers trembled with pure adrenaline. A strong fetal heartbeat. A healthy gestational sac. The one hundred and fifty million was officially mine. I snapped a clear photo of the report and sent it straight to Constance. Her reply came almost immediately: "Well done. The funds are cleared. You can leave whenever you are ready." I inhaled deeply. For the first time in months, even the sterile, antiseptic smell of the clinic felt crisp and sweet. Stepping through the glass doors onto the avenue, the afternoon sunlight was almost blinding. I was about to call the driver to head back to Greenwich when a familiar pair of silhouettes caught my eye through the floor-to-ceiling glass of a high-end French bistro across the street. Chase and Margo. I knew that restaurant. A tasting menu ran north of four figures per person, and reservations had to be secured months in advance. My hand brushed against the ultrasound paper tucked in my coat, and a cold smirk touched my lips. The bankrupt, destitute heir was living far more lavishly than I was, even as an impending multi-millionaire. My first instinct was to turn around and pretend I hadn't seen them. Then I reconsidered. I stepped off the curb, crossed the asphalt, and walked straight through the heavy glass doors of the restaurant. The maître d’ made a move to intercept me—a woman in an unbranded, worn puffer coat had no place in an establishment like this—but I slipped right past him, striding directly up to their table. "Chase?" My voice was soft, trembling slightly, yet pitched with enough clarity to carry across the neighboring tables. Chase was in the middle of slicing a portion of beef wellington. At the sound of my voice, his knife stalled against the porcelain. He looked up, his brow instantly twisting into a deep, furious knot. "What the hell are you doing here?" he hissed under his breath, his eyes darting sideways in warning. Margo set down her crystal wine glass. A flicker of irritation crossed her features before she smoothed it over with her customary, honeyed smile. "Oh, Leah. Have you eaten?" I ignored her completely, keeping my eyes fixed entirely on Chase. "Chase... you told me... you told me you didn't even have enough money for lunch." I bit my trembling lower lip, letting the tears well up on cue. "I've been working eight-hour shifts on my feet every day. My palms are blistered from carrying trays, and I've been living on plain toast and water just so I could save every single penny to buy you something decent to eat." Reaching into my coat, I pulled out a fistful of crumpled, small-denomination bills—fives, tens, a few ones, folded and messy. "This is everything I made the past three days. It’s all yours. Just... please don't lie to me." I dropped the crumpled pile of bills onto the crisp white tablecloth, right beside his pristine plate of beef wellington. The visual contrast was absolute, humiliating poetry. Murmurs rippled through the dining room. Several patrons from neighboring tables turned to look, their expressions shifting between shock, curiosity, and sheer secondhand embarrassment. Chase’s face flushed an ugly, dark crimson. I had destroyed his dignity. The polished, effortless charm he wore like a second skin had just been shredded by a handful of dirty dollar bills. "Leah, have you completely lost your mind?" He stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the parquet floor. He snatched the crumpled bills off the linen and hurled them violently in my direction. The green paper scattered across the polished floorboards like dead leaves. "Were you tracking me?" he snarled, his voice vibrating with lethal fury. "Are you that pathetic? You really can't go five minutes without clinging to me like a leech?" I stumbled back a step, looking at him with wide, shattered eyes. "I was only... I was worried about you." "I don't need your damn worry!" Chase practically spat the words through clenched teeth. "Margo knew my stomach was acting up and treated me to lunch. Is that a crime? Does every little thing have to turn into a low-class scene with you?" Always defending her. He didn't even bother concocting a plausible excuse anymore. Margo stood up smoothly, placing a calming hand on Chase’s forearm. "Chase, calm down. Leah was just concerned." She turned her gaze to me, her tone dripping with mock charity. "Leah, this place is entirely out of your league. That pile of change wouldn't even cover the sparkling water. You should really go home before you embarrass yourself further." I looked down at the bills littering the floor, knelt down slowly, and picked them up one by one. Chase stood above me, glaring down as if I were a pile of street trash. I picked up the last five-dollar bill, straightened my posture, and smoothed down my coat. "I'm sorry," I said quietly, tucking the money into my pocket. "I won't interrupt you anymore." As I turned toward the exit, Chase’s icy command followed me through the quiet room: "Leah, this is your final warning. Stop playing these pathetic, backwater games." 4 Tonight was Chase’s twenty-seventh birthday. It was also the night his little "loyalty test" was scheduled to reach its grand finale. Margo had rented out a dive bar deep in an industrial pocket of Queens under the guise of letting Chase experience "authentic working-class life." In truth, it was a carefully constructed theater where their entire social circle could gather to watch me make a fool of myself. I sat on a sticky vinyl stool, wearing that same faded, washed-out sweater. Around me sat an assortment of trust-fund heirs in tailored blazers and designer streetwear, their exotic sports cars parked out front like gleaming predators in an alleyway. They puffed on imported cigars and poured vintage Burgundy from bottles they had smuggled in, turning the dive into a theater of the absurd. Chase sat at the center of the booth, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his expression unreadable behind the haze of smoke. "So, Leah," Trent called out over the jukebox, exhaling a thick plume of gray smoke, "it’s Chase’s big day. What did you get the birthday boy?" Every pair of eyes swiveled in my direction. I was their prime-time entertainment. Lowering my gaze, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a cheap plastic lighter—the clear neon-blue kind sold at bodega counters for ninety-nine cents, complete with a tacky deli logo printed along the side. "I... this was all I could afford," I murmured, setting the lighter onto the sticky table. The booth erupted into merciless, unrestrained laughter. "Holy shit, a ninety-nine-cent lighter? The devoted country mouse really spared no expense for our boy Chase!" "Incredible. I could hear the gears of her cheap little brain turning all the way from Midtown." Smiling with practiced elegance, Margo slid an emerald-green leather box across the table toward Chase. "Happy birthday, Chase. It’s a Patek Philippe Grand Complications. I had my family’s buyer pull it from an auction in Geneva." She glanced sideways at me, her gaze heavy with triumph. "It’s the thought that counts, Leah. No one expects you to afford real luxury." Chase didn't even cast a glance at the plastic lighter. He reached out smoothly, pulling Margo’s leather box toward him. "Thank you, Margo," he said, his voice entirely gentle. "You shouldn't have spent so much." At that exact moment, my stomach twisted violently. This time, it wasn't an act. The genuine nausea of early pregnancy, combined with the sickening stench of stale beer, cigar smoke, and cheap grease, overwhelmed me completely. I clamped a hand over my mouth and surged to my feet. "Excuse me. Bathroom." I bolted toward the hallway at the back of the bar, shoved open the stall door, and collapsed over the sink, dry-heaving until my ribs ached and tears streamed down my face. When the spasms finally passed, I leaned against the grimy tile and pulled out my phone. A text from Constance was sitting on the screen: "The helicopter lands on the rooftop across the street in five minutes. Don't be late." I stared at the glowing pixels, wiped the sour dampness from the corner of my lips, and smiled. It was finally over. I splashed cold water over my face, patted my hair into place, and walked steadily back toward the booth. The energy at the table had shifted while I was gone. Trent held a thick legal folder, slamming it down against the wood with a heavy "thud". "Alright, Leah. Show’s over." He looked at me with open amusement. "Chase never went broke. The whole thing was a bet to see how long a gold-digging opportunist like you could pretend to be madly in love when there wasn't a dime left on the table." He slid the document across the varnish toward me. "This is a non-disclosure and release form. Sign it, admit you were only here for the money, take this fifty grand, and disappear." Beside the paper lay a thick stack of banded hundred-dollar bills. Fifty thousand dollars. The price of my silence and their amusement. Margo couldn't resist twisting the knife. "Just take the cash, Leah. Save whatever scraps of dignity you have left. Chase was never serious about you. He just found your lack of sophistication novel for a few weeks." I looked at the brick of cash, then shifted my gaze to Chase. He was leaning back against the leather cushion, arms crossed, his eyes detached and imperious. He offered no apology, no intervention, no remorse. He was simply waiting for the inevitable: for me to break down, sob, and beg him on my knees. I took a slow, steady breath. Reaching out, I picked up the stack of bills, feeling the dry heft of the paper in my palm. "Fifty thousand?" I asked softly. "That’s it?" Trent snorted. "You think that’s low? A girl who clears tables wouldn't see that much cash in two years." I didn't answer him. Right at that second, a crisp, two-tone chime rang out from my pocket. A specialized alert tone. I pulled my phone out with deliberate slowness and tapped the screen awake. The push notification from my private offshore account was already waiting: "Wire Transfer Received: USD 150,000,000.00. Balance Updated." Eight zeros. Not a single cent missing.