Outlasting My Sugar Daddy

I press two fingers under Damien Vane's nose to check if he's still breathing. He is. Damn it. "Huh. Still got a pulse." I drop my hand. "My bad.

Carry on." I turn to crawl back to my side of the bed. His hand clamps around my wrist before I make it an inch. Eyes still shut.

Voice like he's been awake the whole time. "In a hurry, Fifi?" Here's the situation. Damien Vane. Old money, half the city in his pocket, and supposedly not long for this world.

His fiancée took one look at the prognosis and ran. Me? I moved in. The plan was simple. Get pregnant. Outlast him. Walk away rich before the clock runs out on both of us.

So I put in the work. Three years of nurse outfits. Three years of that little whip. Three years of wringing every last drop out of a dying man. There's just one problem.

He won't die. And I'm the one who's about to keel over. Three years of my prime, gone. Somebody write my eulogy.

He pulls me down onto the mattress without ever opening his eyes. "You've still got outfits in that closet you haven't worn," he says. "Your man's not dying just yet." Chapter 1 At the kept women's luncheon, I take my usual seat at the head of the table.

It's not a competition. But if it were, I'd win. In a room where every woman is ranked by the man who keeps her, mine owns half the skyline. That puts me on top.

Today, though, I'm running on empty. I sink into the couch and don't bother with conversation.

There's a dull ache low in my belly, and every time I picture the way Damien went still last night when his hand found the little bunny tail I'd clipped on, my face goes hot all over again.

Bianca Shaw, my socalled favorite rival, leans in, pity so fake it's almost a skill. "Fifi, sweetie. You look so worn out lately." I poke at my icecream cake and say nothing.

You try four rounds with a dying man and see how perky you look. She scoots closer, drops her voice like she's doing me a kindness. "Your Mr.

Vane had another episode recently, didn't he? God, the poor thing.

One scare after another." A theatrical little sigh. "So young, and already sleeping in an empty bed." Then, because she can't help herself: "Although. An empty bed has its perks.

Not like me. Three times a week with mine. I'm exhausted just thinking about it." I give her a slow, sympathetic smile. "Three times a week? Sounds exhausting, sweetie.

Some of us would rather save our energy for spending the money." My phone buzzes before she can recover. Damien.

I sit up straight, clear my throat, and pitch my voice high and sweet. "Daaamien." "What are you up to." "Afternoon tea.

It's so boring." I twist a strand of hair and pout into the phone. "I'm coming to get you." "Okay." I hang up and melt back into the couch, staring up at the chandelier.

Three years. Three years, and the man still won't die. I, meanwhile, am running on fumes. There is nothing left in the tank. Nothing.

When Damien comes to collect me, I take my sweet time getting up.

Bianca clings to my arm, all reluctance. "We've barely talked!" I give her a look and furrow my brow on purpose. "What can I do. My Mr.

Vane is due for his meds." The whole table watches me leave, dripping with sympathy. Everyone knows the story.

Damien Vane, oldmoney prince of New York, gravely ill, hanging on by a thread. Fiancée bolted three years ago. And me. The one kept woman he keeps around for company.

Word on the street is he can't even perform. That I've spent three years as an untouched widow. "Poor thing," someone murmurs as the door closes behind me. "No.

Poor him." "How so?" "Look at that body. All curves.

Ripe as a summer peach." A pause. "Imagine getting to hold that every night and never taking a bite." A beat of silence around the table. Then, in unison, a sigh. "God.

Poor man." Chapter 2 And so the poor ripe peach ends up in the lap of the even poorer, sicklier, pilladay Mr. Vane himself.

I tug the hem of my dress down a careful inch as he settles me onto his thigh. "Damien. Feeling any better today?" I sit there, brows knit, the picture of a worried little wife.

The illness has left him pale. Lean. Too lean, his cheeks hollowed just enough to cut his profile into something sharp and breakable. For a second I lose my train of thought.

The man is supposedly at death's door. Pills morning and night. And last night he still had me four times. If he were actually healthy.

I shiver and don't finish the thought. "Fifi." He coughs. "Don't know if it was last night, but I'm not feeling right today." Tears spring to my eyes on cue.

I wrap myself around his narrow waist and pour every soft, sweet inch of myself into his arms. "Damien, I can't lose you…" Here's the thing about my tears.

The first time he got sick and I sobbed my heart out, he was so moved he wired me five million by morning. Ever since, whenever he says he feels off, I cry like I mean it.

Today's no exception. I weep into the side of his neck, press myself flush against him, and nuzzle. I nuzzle for my life.

Up front, the driver discreetly raises the privacy partition. Damien pats my back, something close to tender. "Don't cry.

I'm not dying this second." Three years I've been hearing that line. Three years, and how many good years does a girl have left. Boo hoo.

The tears come harder. "Maybe I should just move downstairs. Separate rooms. Wouldn't that be better?" The hand on my back slides down.

Along my spine, to the dip of my waist, and lower, to the curve of me. His other hand comes up and loosens his tie.

I blink at him through wet lashes. "Damien?" "We'll talk about the rooms later." His voice drops. "First you're going to put out the fire you just started." I bite my lip and look at him, wounded. "But I don't like it in the car." He always bumps my head against the roof.

It hurts. He catches my chin and tilts my face up. Leans in. Kisses the tears off my lashes. "Too late, Fifi." It takes me a second to catch his meaning.

All that crying and nuzzling and pressing up against him. I've gone and got the leaky old boat ready to set sail again.

His gaze drops to my chest. "You came out dressed like this?" I follow his eyes. Shelled lychee, practically. Even I'm a little impressed.

Sour little thought: Damien Vane has it good. Eats well, too. No dying man does it like this. He's faking it. He has to be.

That's the only way a man this sick is still going strong three years in. I shake the thought off the second it lands. Listen to me. Too much soapopera in my head.

Men don't fake their own deathbeds. Chapter 3 Damien doesn't let me off easy. That leaky old boat has staying power.

The car's been parked in the home garage forever before he finally brings me in to shore. I'm draped around his neck, gone soft as dough. Dress torn. Stockings laddered.

Marks scattered everywhere. He wraps me in his suit jacket and carries me out of the car. The staff have the good sense to vanish.

He takes me straight up to the master bedroom and, without even looking, pulls a pair of pink fluffy handcuffs out of the nightstand drawer.

I lie facedown and curse him into the sheets. No man this sick goes a second round. He's faking it.

He has to be. "Fifi." He leans in, working his shirt buttons open, voice low. "What were you doing at the hospital the other day?" My heart drops straight through the floor. "Oh, um, just lady stuff.

Got my hormones checked." I blink up at him, all innocence. "Why?" He looks at me a beat too long. "Then follow your doctor's orders." "Mm.

I always listen to my doctor." He seems pleased with how sweet and obedient I am. Leans down and kisses me. "Again, Fifi.

One more time." That pause of his sits in my chest a second longer than it should. Like he didn't quite buy it. Like he just decided not to say so.

Damien, thoroughly satisfied, retreats to his study. I lie there like a corpse for a solid hour. Until Shay messages me, asking how it went. Me: [Fiorella Quinn: died midgrind.

A promising young talent, gone too soon.] Shay: [lol. So he didn't drain you dry today. What's your actual move here, though?] Shay: [Honestly? Do what I do.

Let him live a few more years, milk it, retire rich.] But that's different. That's completely different. Two weeks ago, I figured out something that should have broken me.

I'm a character in a book. A trashy romance, and not even the lead. I'm the kept woman keeping Damien Vane warm while his fiancée is away. That's my whole arc.

Because here's how the story goes. His health comes back. He and the fiancée clear up their little misunderstanding. True love wins.

And right before the wedding, she asks him for one thing. One. She wants him to deal with me. Personally. Me, and the baby in my belly. He says yes.

A few months later, I die on a delivery table. The baby never takes a breath. I bleed out. Every last drop. Until there's nothing left of me at all. That's not a nightmare.

That's a later chapter. It's already written. Do the math on the timeline. Right about now, I might already be pregnant.

So no, I'm not some golddigger counting down a sick man's days for fun. I'm the one on a clock. Two clocks.

His, and the one ticking inside me that ends with both of us dead on a hospital bed. Outlast him, take the money, run. That was never greed.

That was me trying to get out before the story does what it promised. For two weeks I've thrown everything I have at seducing him. Trying to rewrite the script. And honestly?

It's not working. The man performs like he's got another thirty years in the tank. Chapter 4 That leaves me deflated enough that when I finally fall asleep, I don't just dream.

I sleepwalk. Damien lies beside me, one arm slung over my waist, breathing soft. I slip out of bed and reach over to check under his nose for breath.

Press two fingers to the side of his neck for a pulse. After a while I shake my head, disappointed. "Still breathing. Sorry to bother." I turn to go.

His hand clamps around my wrist. I freeze and look back.

His eyes are still shut, voice thick with sleep. "In a hurry, Fifi?" "You've still got outfits in that closet you haven't worn.

Your man's not dying just yet." But you don't hurry up and die, Damien, and I'm the one who's going to. I stand at the edge of the bed, not sure when I surfaced from the dream.

Still foggy. Cold moonlight spills across the sheets. I look at his sleeping face, all those clean sharp lines. Something pinches behind my ribs. And I have to admit it.

The wantinghimdead thing. Not one bit of it is real. I've been broke my whole life. Even in the book, money is my first love.

But what I feel for Damien Vane, I've never faked a cent of that. While he's at the office, I slip back to the hospital. Bloodwork confirms it. Pregnant.

But I don't do what the girl in the book does, run to him glowing with the happy news. I keep my mouth shut.

Two days later, right on schedule, exactly like the script, his fiancée comes back to the city. Camilla Ashford.

The day she lands, she has mutual friends scrambling to set up a meeting with him. He takes a full week to say yes. I play dumb. Keep right on being the brainless little arm candy.

When he leaves for the meeting, I cling to him, begging for a kiss, telling him to come home early. Then, sly: "I bought a new outfit.

Come back late and you won't get to see it." He glances at me.

Takes his sweet time straightening his cuffs. "You know, Fifi, my doctor was right about you." "About what?" "You'll be the death of me one day." He arches a brow, the corner of his mouth tipping up.

For a second his whole face goes soft, like sun on water. I stomp my foot and clap a hand over his mouth. "Don't say that. You're going to live to a hundred." "Mm.

So will you, Fifi." He kisses me, and then he's gone. I stand there and watch him walk off, get in the car, watch the car shrink down the drive.

Only then does the stiff smile slide off my face. Because in the book, Fiorella Quinn doesn't live to a hundred. She dies at twentytwo. Still young.

Up until two days ago, I'd held onto one thin thread of hope. That maybe none of it was real. That I'd just had a bad dream.

Then Camilla came back, down to the exact day, the exact hour. And the hope in me died for good. Two weeks of this. If it weren't my own life, I'd laugh. Forget whether Damien dies.

Say he does, and I'm carrying his kid. You think we'd be safe? A dead man's fortune draws vultures.

There'd be a line out the door of people happy to make a pregnant mistress and her baby disappear. Nobody is going to protect this child for me. So I'll do it myself.

I open my banking app and stare at the balance. All those zeros. I count them. Count them again. Forty times, maybe. It helps. A little. According to the book, they reunite tonight.

And then, well. You can guess. Forget coming home early. For a solid week, his little kept woman doesn't see him at all.

At afternoon tea, Bianca slides into my seat at the head of the table. Salt, meet wound. Then Shay messages me. Shay: [Fifi.

My cheating bastard's first love just came crawling back. I'm packing my shit and walking. You in?] I chew my lip and think about it for three whole minutes.

I don't want to die on a delivery table with my baby. I'm young. I'm gorgeous. I've got money and a kid on the way.

There are a thousand pretty boys out there with good faces and better bodies. I am not going to rot on this sinking ship with Damien Vane. Me: [You go, I go.

Packing right now.] Shay: [Ugly crying. Love you. See you soon.] I gather up every piece of expensive jewelry he ever gave me.

Grab the priciest bag he ever bought me, a Birkin, and head downstairs. This is a romance novel, after all. The woman runs, and the male lead never finds her again.

Besides, look how gracious I'm being, stepping aside, making room for Camilla. Maybe he'll be so pleased he wires me a little parting gift. That's what I tell myself, anyway.

But when I'm actually boarding the plane, the tears come. Traitors. I hate Damien Vane. I really do. I hate him so much I— I never want to love him again.

And that's the biggest lie I've told all day. Chapter 5 Damien stands alone on the terrace and lights a cigarette. One drag in, he puts it out. Fifi doesn't like the smell of smoke.

She's sensitive to it. One whiff and she starts coughing. The thought of her smooths the crease out of his brow. He takes out his phone. Strange.

Not a single call or text from his clingy little shadow all night. That's not like her. Normally by now she'd have sent him a dozen private shots.

Little dresses, costumes, bunny ears, all of it, just to wind him up. Tonight her pouty selfie sits quiet on his screen, doing nothing. His brow furrows again.

He opens her chat and types. You said you bought a new outfit. Where's the photo? The message doesn't send. A red exclamation mark. Blocked.

Something in his chest gives a hard, ugly lurch. He's already turning, already walking fast back into the room. He grabs his jacket and heads for the door.

Camilla catches his sleeve, eyes red and swollen. "Damien. Don't go. Please." He pulls his arm free without slowing down. Doesn't look at her. Doesn't look back. And he's gone.

In the car, door barely shut, he tells the driver. "Faster. Back to the estate." Then he calls the number pinned at the top of his contacts. Again.

The same cold recording. "The number you have dialed is currently unavailable—" His hand goes to his chest. The cough tears out of him, violent, folding him over.

City light slides across the window, breaking and pooling. He looks down at the smear of red on his palm. Nobody is watching. No reason to perform.

He just sits there, spine gone out of him, and shuts his eyes. By the time the car stops at the estate, his face is composed again.

He gets out, asking the housekeeper as he walks. "Is she in her room?" "Miss Quinn went out about three hours ago.

Said Miss Brooks invited her to dinner." He climbs to the third floor. No sugarsweet voice waiting at the top. Just silence, wall to wall. He pushes the bedroom door open.

Turns on the light. Her things are still lined up on the vanity. He crosses to it and pulls open a drawer. Half empty. The expensive jewelry he gave her, gone.

He looks at the empty boxes. And laughs, quietly. In the closet, two full walls of designer bags sit exactly where they belong. One gap. He doesn't have to look to know which one.

The Birkin. Last year's birthday. The most expensive thing he ever put in her hands. The dresses she loves are still hanging. Every shade of pink.

And beside them, a row of those outfits. Tags still on. Never worn. He turns and walks slowly out of the room. Downstairs.

He has the phone out again, hasn't dialed, when a call comes in first. He answers. Brennan's voice, fury barely leashed. "Vane!

Where the hell did your woman take Shay?" "Phone's dead, I'm blocked, and she's been in Shay's ear feeding her God knows what about me—" Something shatters in the background.

Brennan's voice climbs. Damien stands still, eyes on the swing out in the garden. When the hibiscus blooms, that's where Fifi likes to sit. "Funny.

I was about to ask you the same thing." He keeps his voice level. "My staff says Shay invited Fifi to dinner.

So where did she take her, and where are they now?" "Bullshit!" Another crash. "Fifi's the one who called Shay!

Stop covering for her, you—" His voice cracks. "She's got you so doped up you can't think straight." Damien doesn't move. His eyes stay on the empty swing.

Only the hand around the phone has gone whiteknuckled. "You've got time to scream at me, Brennan. Or time to put people on finding them.

Pick one." "What's that supposed to mean?" A low laugh. "It means exactly what it sounds like. Your woman took mine and ran. Fifi doesn't want me.

Shay doesn't want you." He hangs up. He calls for one of his most trusted men. But when the man arrives, Damien changes his mind.

Chapter 6 I've always been a person with nowhere to go. In the end, I decide to follow Shay to her hometown. Far from Damien. Far, far away.

Far enough that his body probably couldn't survive the trip. When we land, my phone is silent. Shay's, on the other hand, is losing its mind.

She's blocked a dozen numbers and they keep calling from new ones. I watch her stab at the screen, jaw clenched, and feel something I can't quite name. Envy, maybe.

Damien's probably wrapped up with Camilla right now. Forgot I exist hours ago. Which is fine. Good, even. Shay finally just snaps her SIM card in half. "There.

Quiet." She tosses it without blinking. "You're not changing your number?" I shake my head slowly. "Too much stuff tied to it.

Pain to redo." A beat. "Besides, Damien's not going to come looking. So it doesn't matter either way." Shay goes quiet for a second.

Then she pulls me into a hug, eyes red. "That bastard's really getting back with Camilla?" "Probably already has.

Expect a happy announcement any day now." She looks at me, aching. "Fifi, if you're hurting, cry. Right here. I won't laugh." "Shay. Are you hurting?

After what Brennan did to you." Her face goes flat. She slides her sunglasses on. "What are we eating later. Hotpot or Korean BBQ?" "I'll order eighteen male models.

You can have eight." I touch my stillflat stomach and loop my arm through hers. "Shay. You keep all the male models. I'm out." "What, going soft on me, Quinn?" "No. I'm...

I'm pregnant." The bag in Shay's hand hits the floor with a smack. She shrieks an octave up. "FIFI!" "You're pregnant and you didn't tell me?

Damien finds out you're carrying and I helped you run, he'll skin me alive and feed me to the fish." "He won't find out. I'll make sure of it." My eyes sting.

I tug at her sleeve, give it a little shake. "Shay. Can we just not talk about him anymore?

Please?" Shay's grinding her teeth so hard her whole body shakes. "That selfish piece of garbage got you pregnant and won't even take responsibility?" But that's not Damien.

He was careful. Every single time. It was the old Fiorella. The dumb, sweet one who didn't know yet that she was living inside a book. She wanted to have his baby.

Wanted to leave something of him behind, some piece of a man she thought was dying. "Don't blame him, Shay. This was me. I wanted it." I force a smile. "Think about it.

Money, looks, and now a kid to inherit it all. Total winner over here." Shay pulls her sunglasses off. Her eyes are swollen when she looks at me. "Fifi.

You're in love with him, aren't you?" "Did you forget what you promised me three years ago?" I don't have an answer. The tears just start falling, out of my control.

Because Damien was too good to her.

So good she fell without noticing. "You're going to get yourself killed, you know that?" Shay, somewhere between heartbroken and furious. "This pregnancy cannot get out." "Brennan told me.

Camilla looks sweet, but underneath she's the most poisonous thing in that whole circle.

If she actually marries Damien and finds out you and the baby exist—" Shay sucks in a sharp breath. "She will not let you live." "We can't stay here, Fifi. We go now.

Buy any ticket—" She doesn't finish. The crowd in front of us splits apart, parted by a dozen broadshouldered men in dark suits. And then a tall figure steps into view.

My eyes fly wide. I grab Shay's hand and run. Chapter 7