Chapter 1
He thought she was a woman who could be bought with money, but she turned out to be far more mysterious and powerful than he'd imagined.
She accepted his task and entered into a contract marriage with him, but on the day they divorced, he put his future in her hands.
*****
"Name your price," Marcel Larsen muttered, with his fingers pressed to his throbbing temples, his face twisted in pain.
He struggled to open his eyes. What he saw wasn't the glittering crystal chandelier of his villa or the ornate plasterwork of a luxury hotel.
Instead, he saw a ceiling, damp, moldy, with peeling paint in spots.
'Where am I?' Marcel wondered as he sat up. The surface beneath him wasn't a bed. It was a wooden board covered by a thin sheet.
As the head of Maxwell Group and the big shot that everyone feared, he couldn't believe he was sleeping in a dump like this.
A soft, muffled murmur came from beside him, and a small, delicate face appeared in his line of sight.
The woman was curled up under the blanket, her long hair messy, scattered across the pillow. She slept soundly with one leg carelessly draped over his thigh.
Fragments of last night came back to him. He thought of drinks, being drugged, his frantic escape, crashing into this rundown neighborhood, and then this woman dragging him back here.
A flash of disgust crossed Marcel's mind. He had seen this same scenario too many times before.
A random woman would show up when he was vulnerable, pulling him home, hoping for something to happen, and then using it to blackmail him into a marriage or some huge payout. It was a classic badger game.
With clear contempt, he shoved her leg away, his movements rough and impatient.
Colette Juarez stirred and blinked sleepily. She yawned and turned her back to him. "If you're awake, leave. Don't bother me," she said in a soft but no-nonsense voice.
Marcel scoffed. 'Playing hard to get, huh? A bit more clever than the ones who would jump on me, but still lame to me.'
He reached for his pocket, but his suit was crumpled up on a metal rack by the bed. He pulled out his wallet and slipped a black card out with his long fingers. It was the Larsen Group's black platinum card with no spending limit.
"Drop the act," Marcel said, tossing the card onto her pillow. "The money on this card could buy this whole building, and it's enough for a woman like you to spend your whole life on."
He stood up, towering over her with an air of condescension. "Take it, and keep your mouth shut about last night."
Colette slowly sat up, her hair sticking out in every direction like a bird's nest. She rubbed her eyes, and then her gaze fell on the black card on the pillow. Without hesitation, she picked it up.
Just as Marcel was expecting her to thank him profusely, Colette flicked her wrist and tossed the card into the trash like it was worthless.
"You—" Marcel sputtered.
Colette threw off the covers. Without looking at Marcel, she walked straight to the table and grabbed her phone.
"Transfer the money." She held the phone up in front of his face, her voice cold. "I do not take junk, and I do not have time to deal with your card at the bank."
Marcel was stunned. In twenty-six years, no one had ever thrown the black card into the trash like it meant nothing or dared to shove a phone in his face and demand money. "What the hell do you mean?" he said through clenched teeth.
Colette waved her phone impatiently. "Playing dumb, huh?"
She started counting on her fingers. "Last night, you got drunk and threw up all over me. The cleaning fee is 15 bucks. Then you kept asking for water seven times in the middle of the night. Labor and water, another 15, and..."
She pointed at a tear in the bedsheet, the one Marcel had ripped while he was drunk. "The sheet was not expensive, but it was new. 15 bucks. One more thing, you woke me up at dawn and insulted me. Emotional damage. 15 bucks."
Colette looked up at him. Her eyes were sharp and calm, nothing like the greed he expected. "That makes 60 dollars. Scan and pay. Then get out."
'60 dollars? That's humiliating. One night with me was only worth 60 bucks? That even includes the sheet and water,' Marcel thought. "Hey, do you even know who I am?" he asked.
Colette stepped back and wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Why should I care? You look rich, but you cannot even pay 60 bucks?"
She looked him over. Her eyes stopped at the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist. "That must be fake, right?"
She let out a short scoff. "Come on. Stop wasting time. I need to get my food truck ready."
'Fake? Is she blind?' Marcel thought. He did not want to spend another second with her. He took out his phone, started to transfer the money, and then paused.
'If I give more, she might think I'm showing off. She asked for sixty, so I'd give her sixty,' he thought.
He typed in "60" and confirmed. A second later, her phone rang. The payment was received.
Colette grabbed her phone and checked it. Then her cold face lit up immediately. "Alright. Get out."
She casually put her phone in her pocket and pointed at the door. "It is over there. The lock is broken. Kick it, and it will open."
Then she picked up a hair tie, tied her hair into a quick bun, and walked into the small bathroom. The door shut behind her with a loud bang.
Marcel stood there, staring at the worn wooden door. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles cracked. In his whole life, he had never been humiliated like this. 'Sixty bucks? Fine,' he thought.
"Colette Juarez, huh?" Marcel glanced at a takeout receipt on the table with her name on it. He kept it in mind.
He turned and kicked the weak door open. It almost came off its hinges. Then he strode out without looking back.
Inside the bathroom, Colette heard the noise. She rolled her eyes as she brushed her teeth. "Bad temper," she muttered.
She spat out the foam and looked at herself in the mirror.
The mirror was a little blurry, but it still showed a natural beauty. She looked good, but there was a tired look in her eyes. "Still gotta save up," she said.
*****
Marcel stormed out of the rundown building, his face dark with anger.
At the mouth of the alley, a black Maybach had been waiting for a long time.
The moment the bodyguards in black saw him, they rushed over, clearly terrified.
"Mr. Larsen, are you alright? We're so sorry we were late," one of them stammered, sweat running down his face.
Marcel stopped, straightened his collar, and put on his usual cold, superior look. "Look into a woman named Colette Juarez in this building."
The bodyguard froze for a moment and then quickly nodded. "On it, sir. Did a rival send her?"
Marcel pictured her shoving her phone in his face for 60 sixty bucks and tossing his black card in the trash. "No." He let out a cold laugh and got into the car. "A mouthy street rat."
'Colette Juarez, you've got my attention now,' he thought.
Meanwhile, Colette hummed to herself as she drove her beat-up truck with the engine rattling, packed full of barbecue supplies, heading straight for the Food Truck Gatherings.
Now, their bad blood was sealed for good.