Chapter 3: Threats, Lies, and Lemon Bars

"Damn it, Michael Donovan, are you a dog?"

Michael didn’t answer, his silence louder than anything he could’ve said.

The tiny iron bed creaked under us—a Craigslist relic from my first week in the city—while I swore at him under my breath in every language I knew.

What was wrong with this guy?

Just because I lied about stomach cancer this time? I’d even rehearsed the symptoms.

But I’d lied about everything—food poisoning, muggings, fake funerals. He saw through me now, probably had his assistant checking my stories. Only my most desperate pleas got him here anymore.

Maybe he was pissed about some other guy—like that blonde at his holiday party—and took it out on me. Jealousy burned in my gut.

I remembered this morning’s post on his company’s Instagram—him shaking hands with investors, flashing that fake smile. My stomach twisted.

I kicked at his shoulder, aiming for his old lacrosse injury, but he caught my ankle, his grip tight.

"Stop pretending. You went to all this trouble—wasn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t it always?"

His eyes held pure contempt. I went silent, the string in my head stretched thin.

I rubbed my wrist, already bruising, and pouted like a sulky kid.

I’ll let you have this one.

...

It was finally over.

I lay half-dead on the bed, feeling like I’d been hit by a subway train. He got up, the mattress bouncing as he moved, his body disappearing behind an expensive shirt—probably Tom Ford. Just like that, he was back to being the untouchable golden boy of Manhattan.

I watched him, fumbling for a cigarette, lighting up with shaking hands. Smoke curled around us, the rain outside tapping against the fire escape.

"This time it was stomach cancer," Michael said, his voice icy. "What about next time? What excuse will you use? Illness? Car accident? Suicide? Ryan. You keep pulling the same old fire alarm. I’m done running every time you yell."

The words landed like a slap.