Part 2His White Moonlight Tax

I took the money and turned to leave, but I ran straight into Patrick.

He saw me, and for a fleeting second, panic flashed in his eyes. Then his gaze fell to my tattered work uniform, and his expression soured with a subtle, unmistakable disgust.

He rounded on the security guard. "How did a participant get in here? What are you people paid for?"

The event coordinator quickly stepped in. "Mr. Schwimmer, my apologies. This participant needed cash immediately for a medical bill, so we brought her backstage. We're leaving now."

I stared at Patrick, dumbfounded. He stood there, impossibly handsome and regal in his bespoke suit, looking nothing like a sick man. The fabric was so fine, woven with threads of gold that I could spend a lifetime scrambling for and never afford.

My throat was raw. I couldn't tell if my voice was trembling or if I just couldn't speak at all.

"Patrick," I finally managed to whisper. "Are you going to pretend you don't know me?"

Before Patrick could answer, the people behind him, the same ones who had just been mocking me, looked horrified.

"Is this the famous girlfriend? But... her clothes..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. Everyone was thinking it. My face was sallow, my skin rough, my clothes practically rags. I was the woman who had just been crawling on the ground for money. I looked like I was one step away from starving.

How could I possibly be Patrick Schwimmer's girlfriend?

Patrick's face was a mask of fury, the veins on his arm bulging. He looked at me with cold, hard eyes, as if my very presence was a source of profound embarrassment.

Isabelle, standing beside him, let out an exaggerated yawn. "Oh, not this again. Another desperate woman trying to get Patrick's attention. I've heard this line so many times it's boring."

It was the out Patrick needed. He stepped around me without a flicker of recognition.

"A rather pathetic attempt at getting my attention," he said coolly.

The bitterness in my mouth was suffocating. My mind flashed back to college. Freshman year, the student council had hazed me, forcing me to run five miles. I refused, and they dumped a bucket of toilet water on my head. They made me stand in the blazing sun for two hours until I finally collapsed.

The last thing I saw before I passed out was Patrick scooping me up and rushing me to the infirmary.

He told me my defiance, the look in my eyes, shone like a star.

From that day on, he was my protector. He stood up for me, even when it meant being punished and humiliated himself. He never cared if my clothes were dirty or if I was a mess. His love felt so real, so true. It was why I had chosen to stay with him, even after he told me about his "heart condition."

The man from my memories and the man standing before me now were two different people.

I don't know where the courage came from, but I lunged forward and grabbed his sleeve. The expensive fabric wrinkled, leaving white marks from the dust on my fingers.

His eyes flashed with irritation. "I doubt you could afford to replace this if you sold everything you own."

I cut him off. "Since you're not sick, and you're not poor... can I have my money back?"

Because I'm the one who's sick now.

With a single look from Patrick, the people behind him tactfully withdrew.

"I faked being poor and sick to test you," he said, his voice low and cold. "To see if you were like all the other women, just after my money."

"It seems you're all the same."

I didn't argue. I just looked at him and repeated my question. "Can I have my money back?"

He yanked his arm away with such force that I stumbled and fell to the floor.

"You dirtied my clothes, and you have the audacity to ask me for money?"