Chapter 1 · $30M Receipts For A Fake Genius

Chapter 1

One second before our engagement party started, my fiancé Edward Grant took a call.

On the other end, his childhood sweetheart had slit her wrist.

He looked at me with apology and turned to leave.

Every guest in the room stared, their sympathy twisted into silent ridicule.

They were waiting to watch me become the day's biggest joke.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream.

I simply walked onstage and threw a spreadsheet onto the giant screen: [Ten-Year Investment Total: $29,100,000]

Then, while he stood frozen, I spoke slowly and clearly.

"Edward, your 'talent' is the most expensive product I've ever seen. Sorry, I'm not buying it anymore."

The moment I finished speaking, it was like someone had sucked all the air out of the party hall.

The elegant music screeched to a halt.

The guests' conversations just died, vanishing in an instant.

Hundreds of eyes zeroed in on me.

Edward's guilty expression froze, then crumbled, leaving him staring in blank shock.

"Claire Jennings, have you lost your mind?" Edward hissed, his voice low and twisted with fury. "What the hell is this supposed to mean?"

He reached out, trying to snatch the microphone from my hand.

I slipped aside effortlessly, letting him grab nothing but empty air.

My smile was icy, and my voice echoed through the speakers, slicing through the silence and reaching every corner of the hall.

"I'm not crazy, Mr. Grant. What I'm saying is, our deal ends here."

I snapped my fingers.

The massive projection screen behind me, which was supposed to show all our sweet memories from the past decade, instantly flipped to something else.

No intimate photos. No promises of forever.

Just page after page of icy bank transfer records, each one clearly marked with the date, amount, and what it was for.

[June 2013: Bought top-tier oil paints for Mr. Grant, $10,600.]

[March 2014: Paid the rent for Mr. Grant's top-floor studio, $70,000.]

[September 2017: Bought an antique carved frame at Sotheby's for Mr. Grant, $430,000.]

[February 2019: Mr. Grant thought his studio was too cramped, so I bought a standalone villa in the suburbs for him. $7 million.]

The records kept scrolling down.

Every single one was a step I'd taken to pave his way to fame.

The crowd erupted with gasps and sharp intakes of breath.

The projection finally froze on a summary sheet. [Total: $29,100,000.]

Then, the screen flashed with loan notes, each one signed by him personally.

That was his flamboyant, instantly recognizable signature.

I said, "Edward, ten years, $30 million. I bought every paint you ever touched, rented every studio you ever set foot in, and covered every excuse you ever came up with."

I turned to face him, his complexion completely drained of color. "You can leave. Now."

Edward's face shifted from flushed red to ghostly pale, then to a sickly gray, finally settling into a lifeless ash.

He trembled violently, pointing right at my face, his voice sharp and cracking.

"Claire. You're humiliating me. You're humiliating art!" he shouted. "You think having a pile of money makes you so great?

"My talent isn't something a vulgar businesswoman like you could ever measure with cash! You've tainted the pure love between us with your filthy money."

I nearly laughed out loud.

Pure love?

In my previous life, he and Sophie Linwood murdered my parents, stole my company, snatched my paintings, and stepped over my corpse to climb to the top right after I was dead.

Did he care about our love then?

The guests' faces changed.

First, there was shock, then people started enjoying the drama, and finally, it was just open scorn and ridicule.

"Damn, nearly 30 million? That's not dating, that's treating him like some kind of saint."

"Genius painter, huh? Turns out he's just a freeloader."

"Ten years, a woman's prime years. For a backstabbing jerk like that? Poor Ms. Jennings, that's just tragic."

Every whisper in the crowd dug into Edward's fragile, ridiculous ego.

He snapped, totally losing control, and lunged at me like a man possessed.

I took a step back and grabbed the engagement contract we'd just signed from the emcee.

Facing the crowd, microphone in hand, I slowly and deliberately tore it to shreds, inch by inch.

Bits of paper drifted down, scattering across the floor.

I looked into his shattered eyes and, word by word, sealed the coffin on our past.

"Edward, your talent is the most expensive thing I've ever invested in. Unfortunately, I'm not buying anymore."

With that, I tossed the microphone aside and, in the dead silence, lifted my dress and walked away.

Behind me, he stood there, humiliated, with the weight of everyone's scorn tearing him apart.

That felt fucking amazing.

Chapter 1

One second before our engagement party started, my fiancé Edward Grant took a call.

On the other end, his childhood sweetheart had slit her wrist.

He looked at me with apology and turned to leave.

Every guest in the room stared, their sympathy twisted into silent ridicule.

They were waiting to watch me become the day's biggest joke.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream.

I simply walked onstage and threw a spreadsheet onto the giant screen: [Ten-Year Investment Total: $29,100,000]

Then, while he stood frozen, I spoke slowly and clearly.

"Edward, your 'talent' is the most expensive product I've ever seen. Sorry, I'm not buying it anymore."

The moment I finished speaking, it was like someone had sucked all the air out of the party hall.

The elegant music screeched to a halt.

The guests' conversations just died, vanishing in an instant.

Hundreds of eyes zeroed in on me.

Edward's guilty expression froze, then crumbled, leaving him staring in blank shock.

"Claire Jennings, have you lost your mind?" Edward hissed, his voice low and twisted with fury. "What the hell is this supposed to mean?"

He reached out, trying to snatch the microphone from my hand.

I slipped aside effortlessly, letting him grab nothing but empty air.

My smile was icy, and my voice echoed through the speakers, slicing through the silence and reaching every corner of the hall.

"I'm not crazy, Mr. Grant. What I'm saying is, our deal ends here."

I snapped my fingers.

The massive projection screen behind me, which was supposed to show all our sweet memories from the past decade, instantly flipped to something else.

No intimate photos. No promises of forever.

Just page after page of icy bank transfer records, each one clearly marked with the date, amount, and what it was for.

[June 2013: Bought top-tier oil paints for Mr. Grant, $10,600.]

[March 2014: Paid the rent for Mr. Grant's top-floor studio, $70,000.]

[September 2017: Bought an antique carved frame at Sotheby's for Mr. Grant, $430,000.]

[February 2019: Mr. Grant thought his studio was too cramped, so I bought a standalone villa in the suburbs for him. $7 million.]

The records kept scrolling down.

Every single one was a step I'd taken to pave his way to fame.

The crowd erupted with gasps and sharp intakes of breath.

The projection finally froze on a summary sheet. [Total: $29,100,000.]

Then, the screen flashed with loan notes, each one signed by him personally.

That was his flamboyant, instantly recognizable signature.

I said, "Edward, ten years, $30 million. I bought every paint you ever touched, rented every studio you ever set foot in, and covered every excuse you ever came up with."

I turned to face him, his complexion completely drained of color. "You can leave. Now."

Edward's face shifted from flushed red to ghostly pale, then to a sickly gray, finally settling into a lifeless ash.

He trembled violently, pointing right at my face, his voice sharp and cracking.

"Claire. You're humiliating me. You're humiliating art!" he shouted. "You think having a pile of money makes you so great?

"My talent isn't something a vulgar businesswoman like you could ever measure with cash! You've tainted the pure love between us with your filthy money."

I nearly laughed out loud.

Pure love?

In my previous life, he and Sophie Linwood murdered my parents, stole my company, snatched my paintings, and stepped over my corpse to climb to the top right after I was dead.

Did he care about our love then?

The guests' faces changed.

First, there was shock, then people started enjoying the drama, and finally, it was just open scorn and ridicule.

"Damn, nearly 30 million? That's not dating, that's treating him like some kind of saint."

"Genius painter, huh? Turns out he's just a freeloader."

"Ten years, a woman's prime years. For a backstabbing jerk like that? Poor Ms. Jennings, that's just tragic."

Every whisper in the crowd dug into Edward's fragile, ridiculous ego.

He snapped, totally losing control, and lunged at me like a man possessed.

I took a step back and grabbed the engagement contract we'd just signed from the emcee.

Facing the crowd, microphone in hand, I slowly and deliberately tore it to shreds, inch by inch.

Bits of paper drifted down, scattering across the floor.

I looked into his shattered eyes and, word by word, sealed the coffin on our past.

"Edward, your talent is the most expensive thing I've ever invested in. Unfortunately, I'm not buying anymore."

With that, I tossed the microphone aside and, in the dead silence, lifted my dress and walked away.

Behind me, he stood there, humiliated, with the weight of everyone's scorn tearing him apart.

That felt fucking amazing.