The Day His True Love Tried to Die He Paid Me Five Million to Disappear

I was Aidan Blackwood’s fixer.

When he confessed his love to the scholarship kid, I was the one leading the applause.

When they had a secret rendezvous, I was the lookout.

After graduation, she went abroad to chase her dreams.

And I became Aidan’s placeholder girlfriend.

He said I’d step aside the moment she came back.

But I waited. And waited.

I went from his girlfriend to his fiancée, and from his fiancée, I nearly became his wife.

Finally.

Right before the wedding.

Aidan flew halfway across the world and brought her back.

I slipped the ring off my finger and breathed a sigh of relief.

On my way out, I even thoughtfully closed the door behind me.

1

I wasn’t surprised when I heard Aidan had chartered a private jet on a moment’s notice.

This was about Isabelle, after all.

When my best friend found out, she was furious. “You two are getting married in a month! Has he lost his mind?”

He hadn’t.

Isabelle Valois was the fashion world's new darling, a designer on a meteoric rise. It was also an open secret that she was the first love of Aidan Blackwood, the CEO of Blackwood Industries. Reporters had tried to confirm it with her once.

“It doesn’t matter who was whose first love,” Isabelle had said, her voice cool and crisp as winter air. “I got to where I am today on my own merit. Please focus on my work, not on tabloid gossip.”

But last week, that work became the center of a scandal.

A dazzling, starlit gown she’d designed was suddenly at the heart of a plagiarism accusation. And the original creator was a complete unknown, an amateur who went by the name "Sirius."

The story blew up.

In response, Isabelle posted a single, cryptic message on her Instagram story: Are you all trying to drive me to my death?

That morning, Aidan had been glued to his phone during breakfast. We had a crucial meeting scheduled about a new partnership, a deal he had casually promised my father’s company. When Aidan ghosted the meeting, his VP took the opportunity to award the contract to a cousin’s firm. My father called me ten times in a row, each call a fresh wave of fury.

I tried Aidan’s cell. No answer.

On the third try, it went straight to voicemail. His phone was off.

The next time I saw him was eleven o’clock that night.

He texted me an address—a vacant penthouse he owned on the Upper East Side. A place I’d never been.

The moment I stepped out of the elevator, I was hit by the scent of hundreds of pink roses filling the foyer. They were the same flowers Aidan had once given Isabelle—a flashy, extravagant gesture, his sports car’s trunk overflowing with them the day he first told her he loved her. The decor wasn’t his style, either. None of his sterile, minimalist-chic nonsense. This was all her.

As I neared the master bedroom, I heard a woman’s soft sobs.

The scene inside was exactly what I’d imagined.

Isabelle, pale and fragile, sat on the edge of the bed, a pristine white bandage wrapped around one wrist. She was crying, a perfect, tragic portrait. Aidan, tall and powerful, stood beside her, looking completely helpless. His impeccably tailored suit, usually a suit of armor, was wrinkled and rumpled. The only thing holding the look together was a face that could have been carved from marble.

I couldn’t figure out why he’d called me here. Postmates delivers, after all.

He turned and saw me, and for a second, his eyes lit up with relief.

I knew that look all too well. It was the same look he’d given me in high school when the dean nearly caught him and Isabelle making out in the woods behind the football field. Isabelle’s too shy for this, his eyes had pleaded. Take the fall for her.

It was the same look he’d give me when he couldn’t decide what gift to buy her, or when he’d done something to piss her off and needed me to fix it. Usually, I was no help. We’d both end up getting kicked out, Isabelle scolding Aidan for thinking his money could solve everything and calling me his pathetic little lapdog.

I’d just shrug. “I prefer ‘personal assistant.’ It sounds better on a resume.”

That had made Aidan laugh.

In the end, though, Isabelle always took his money.

She had a dream of being a designer. In high school, if he bought her an expensive birthday present, she’d insist on working for three months to buy him something of equal value. Not me. I took whatever he offered, practically checking his pockets for loose change.

Then, Isabelle bombed her SATs.

She climbed to the roof of the school, threatening to jump. Aidan stood on the lawn below, tears streaming down his face, begging her to come down, promising he would make her dream happen.

And he did. He sent her abroad.

The Blackwoods were wealthy. Not old-world, untouchable royalty, but wealthy enough to bend the world to their will. Behind his family’s back, Aidan accessed the trust fund that became available to him when he turned eighteen. He spent millions to get Isabelle into a prestigious design school in London.

Honestly, I’d always suspected she was only with him for the money.

But then again, so was I.

The difference is, a girl with a crush does it for free.

A girl with a job sends an invoice.

2

The year his family found out, all hell broke loose.

Aidan was cut off and forced into an engagement with a girl from a suitable family. His grandfather, a terrifying patriarch of the old school, laid down the law. “You will marry a woman of your own class!”

But Aidan didn’t want anyone but Isabelle.

So he came up with a truly terrible idea.

He brought me to his grandfather’s imposing estate, orchestrating a scene where a maid would “accidentally” walk in on us exploring the mysteries of our youth. He’d cornered me in a guest room, urgently pulling me toward the bed.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

For a dizzying, stupid moment, I, barely eighteen myself, thought maybe he actually wanted me.

A few minutes later, the door banged open.

A crowd of servants and family members stood in the doorway, their faces a mixture of shock and disapproval. I yanked the duvet up to my chin, my own face burning with a shame so absolute it felt like drowning.

But the humiliation of that moment was nothing compared to what Aidan said next.

He looked at the crowd, a triumphant smirk on his face. “Chloe is my girlfriend,” he declared. “She’s a Rhodes. Chloe Rhodes.”

Then he delivered the killing blow. “She started it. She’s the one who took my shirt off.”

I’ve always been a quick study. If I weren’t, I never would have been the only one of my father’s illegitimate children he bothered to bring home.

In that instant, I understood Aidan’s entire pathetic little scheme.

He was using me as a shield. Not only that, he was using me to make Isabelle look like a saint by comparison. See? he was saying. This is the kind of girl you want me to marry? From a good family? Look at what she does the moment she’s in your house.

It worked.

Later, he spoke to me as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “Chloe, you know who I love.”

“When Isabelle comes back, you’ll leave. Don’t worry,” he’d added, a king bestowing a favor. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

A girl’s reputation was a small price to pay for his epic love story.

So I sold mine. For cash.

I nodded.

Aidan looked pleased, almost relieved. “See? This is why I like you, Chloe,” he’d said with a sigh. “You’re so practical.”

And now, it seemed, my final invoice was due.

3

It all made sense now.

That’s why Aidan had wired five million dollars to my account this morning.

And here I was, thinking it was an early anniversary gift.

Our fifth “anniversary” was in three days.

After accepting the money, I’d actually felt a pang of guilt. I hadn’t gotten him anything, and I couldn’t exactly wire him cash in return. Not that he needed it. And okay, fine, I’m not that generous.

So instead, I’d made a reservation at a Michelin-starred restaurant. I booked the entire place. I was even putting together a slideshow to project on the wall.

I was juggling several massive projects at work, so I’d stayed up all night to finish the presentation. I’d just emailed the final version to the restaurant when Aidan’s text came, summoning me here.

The slideshow was a collection of our five years together.

College. Me, signing him in for attendance and answering questions in lectures while he slept beside me. When the professor called me out, I’d said, completely deadpan, “I’m his future wife. We’re a team. My answer is his answer.” The whole lecture hall had erupted in laughter.

Travel. He loved extreme sports—skydiving, heli-skiing in treacherous terrain. His circle of trust-fund friends were all too precious to risk their necks, so I was the one who always went with him. Afterward, I’d be shaking so badly I could barely stand, my legs trembling as he’d catch me, pulling me into a steadying embrace.

Living Together. Well, sort of. We watched TV together, shopped for groceries together, cooked together… Correction: I cooked, he ate. Aidan hated having maids or housekeepers around. And somewhere along the line, he started doing the dishes without being asked.

My trip down memory lane came to a screeching halt.

As I wondered if it was too late to get a refund on the restaurant, Aidan’s voice cut through my thoughts, sharp with irritation. “What took you so long?”

I’d barely slept in two days, and my head was swimming.

Isabelle looked up at me, her eyes puffy. “You’re… Chloe?”

I managed a polite smile and a nod.

She wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m so sorry you have to see me like this,” she whispered. “Aidan said you’re very good at taking care of people…”

I glanced at Aidan.

He looked completely unfazed. “Take care of her,” he ordered. “She hasn’t eaten in two days. Make her something. And that dress is too thin, go buy her some clothes to change into…”

He rattled off a list of demands, and I just kept nodding. Yes. No problem. On it. I’ll go right now.

My complete and total compliance seemed to throw him off. He stopped talking abruptly.

I was busy typing notes into my phone and, hearing the silence, I looked up, confused. “Is that everything, A— Mr. Blackwood?”

A slip of the tongue. “Aidan” was the name he’d instructed me to use back when we had to put on a show for his grandfather. We’d had to perform so often that the name just stuck. But now, with Isabelle back in the picture, calling him that felt like stepping on a landmine. One jealous glance from her, and Aidan would have my head.

His gaze darkened.

Seeing that he was done, I turned to leave.

“Chloe, stop right there!” he suddenly barked.

I jumped, startled by the force in his voice. I spun around, my most helpful expression plastered on my face. “Yes, Mr. Blackwood? Is there something else?”

His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscles twitching. The words seemed to be squeezed out from between his teeth. “Don’t you have anything to ask me?”

Ask him what?

He glared at me, his cheeks puffed out slightly in anger. It made him look like a handsome, furious bullfrog.

I thought for a moment. “What size are Miss Valois’s clothes?”

I could already tell, of course. She was a size zero. She was even thinner than she’d been in high school, either from catering to the fashion industry’s brutal standards or because life hadn’t been kind to her. Maybe both.

Not me. I ate well and slept better. I was a good thirty pounds heavier than I was back then. When my friends told me to lose weight, I’d tell them it was the look of prosperity. I’d been poor, and I was terrified of ever being hungry again. I liked myself this way. If I got any thinner, the male models I sometimes hired for an evening would be getting the better end of the deal.

Aidan laughed, but it was a cold, sharp sound. “You’re really something, Chloe.”

“Hey, thanks, boss!” I said with a cheerful salute.

4

I bought an entire wardrobe from Chanel. Everything from lingerie to outerwear, top to bottom. Then, I called the restaurant.

When they confirmed that my six-figure deposit was non-refundable, I almost choked.

“You can’t even refund half?” I pleaded.

“I’m sorry, madam. That’s our policy.”

“Okay, new plan,” I said, thinking fast. “I won’t be coming tomorrow night. Can you just make the food now and deliver it?” I gave them the address to the penthouse. “Don’t go crazy, but, you know, don’t be cheap about it either.”

With food and clothing sorted, I did a final mental check. Was I missing anything?

Ah. Of course. Basic human needs.

I opened an app and ordered a pack of 0.01mm condoms.

The size was a complete guess. I chose the smallest they had.

Hope it fits. Not my fault if it doesn’t. It’s not like he ever showed me.

When I got back to the penthouse, Isabelle seemed to have cried herself to sleep. Her eyes were closed, her hand clutching the sleeve of Aidan’s jacket like a lifeline. He was standing in the exact same spot as when I’d left, a silent, motionless guardian.

As I pushed the door open, I saw him lean down, about to steal a kiss from Isabelle’s sleeping lips.

Seriously? Couldn’t he wait until she was awake? Was he that desperate? The thought was so jarring it scrambled my syntax.

I froze, then quickly backed out. After a moment’s thought, I tiptoed back in and quietly placed the essentials on the floor just inside the bedroom. Then, I gently pulled the door shut.

Before I left, I sent Aidan a text.

Me: Mr. Blackwood, the clothes and the dinner are in the living room. I’ve left them on the main console table.

Me: You can get them whenever you two are finished.

As I sent the message, my eyes fell on our previous conversation from earlier in the day, back when he was at the office. He’d been complaining about the old guard at the company, the board members with his last name who made his life hell. Then he’d turned playful, trying to convince me to go bungee jumping with him again. He’d said we should go to Nice in a few days to see the ocean, and then Switzerland at the end of the year to ski, to “wash the office stink off.”

Maybe it’s because the future is so uncertain that we love to plan it.

I’d replied with a simple: [Received.]

That had annoyed him. He sent back an angry cat emoji.

I scrolled through my own emojis for a long time before finding one of a hand petting a cat’s head, and sent it to him. Afraid he was genuinely upset, I’d followed up with: [What do you want for dinner tonight?]

But by then, he must have seen Isabelle’s social media post. He never replied.

The conversation just… stopped. A fitting preamble to the end of our entire relationship.

It had started my freshman year of high school and ended two years after college graduation.

I couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of nostalgia. Aidan was bossy, childish, selfish, and foolish. But I couldn’t deny he was also decent, in his own way. And very generous.

At our engagement party, he’d had a little too much champagne and said, his voice thick with arrogant affection, “Chloe, I’m officially permitting you to stay with me forever.”

For a while, I’d actually let myself believe we would get married.

Clearly, I’d misunderstood.

But the cold, hard number in my bank account was doing a remarkable job of warming my spirits.

I twisted the engagement ring off my finger and placed it gently on the living room table.

As fate would have it, though I’d told the restaurant to just throw something together, they’d kept one item from my original order.

The cake.

Written across the top in delicate script were the words:

Happy 5th Anniversary, A.

I left my engagement ring right beside it.

5

Aidan’s lips stopped a millimeter from Isabelle’s.

For some reason, the desire to kiss her vanished. This was the woman he had thought about for years, right here in front of him. He told himself it was out of respect. Isabelle wasn’t that penniless scholarship kid anymore.

For the past four years, Aidan had flown to London for every one of her birthdays. He’d celebrated with her, introduced her to influential people. But nothing ever happened between them. Back then, Isabelle had told him plainly that she wasn’t coming back to the States and didn’t want to hold him back.

“Who said I’m waiting for you?” Aidan had retorted, his pride stung. “I’m with Chloe now!”

Isabelle had just smiled. “I’m glad she’s with you. It puts my mind at ease.” Then she’d added, “She’d do anything for you. She’ll take good care of you.”

“Aidan, even if we can’t be together, you should know that I want you to be happy more than anyone else in the world.”

His anger had evaporated instantly. This was what love was, wasn’t it? The beautiful tragedy of it. You couldn’t be together, but you were still number one in each other’s hearts. Isabelle deserved to soar. He had to set her free.

She was like a rose he had cultivated himself. She had fought her way out of the mud, and now she deserved to bloom for the whole world to see. He couldn’t keep her trapped by his side. He should only be there when the rose needed watering.

This was the truth he had slowly come to accept.

He only needed someone like Chloe by his side—a woman who was greedy, practical, and transactional. He couldn’t give her his heart, but he could give her a marriage, money, and status. That’s how these things worked in their world. It’s why he’d sent her the five million for their anniversary. His friends told him to make it $5.2 million—a number that sounds like “I love you” in Chinese—but he’d found the idea too sentimental, too cheesy. Chloe didn’t even deserve to carry Isabelle’s shoes. She should be grateful for what she got.

Thinking of Chloe, a strange irritation pricked at him. Even though nothing had happened between him and Isabelle, wasn’t Chloe even a little bit jealous?

No. She was definitely angry. That’s why she was being so formal, calling him “Mr. Blackwood.”

His friends always joked about how utterly obedient she was.

“Man, Aidan, you’ve got her trained. My wife goes ballistic if I even look at another woman.”

“I bet when Isabelle comes back, Chloe would even agree to be the other woman.”

“The other woman? More like the maid. If Aidan booked a hotel room, she’d be the one to show up and deliver the condoms!”

Aidan had never corrected them. Because it was true.

Just then, his phone buzzed. A text message.

It was from Chloe. She’d come and gone.

He glanced casually toward the bedroom door.

And then he saw it. A small, square box on the floor.

Aidan shot to his feet and strode over to it, snatching it up. He stared at it in disbelief, his hand crushing the small cardboard box out of shape.

Chloe had even thought of this for him.

It was the exact scenario his friends had joked about.

But now that it was actually happening, Aidan felt a sudden, sharp surge of fury. A suffocating tightness filled his chest.

Isabelle stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She saw the box in his hand. A blush crept up her neck, but a flicker of triumph flashed in her eyes. “Aidan, please don’t,” she murmured. “When I asked you to get me out of there, I didn’t mean… I’m so sorry if I gave you the wrong impression…”

Before she could finish, she watched him toss the small box into the trash can.

Isabelle’s expression froze.

“Do I look like some kind of animal to you?” Aidan snapped.

She let out a quiet breath of relief. So, he wasn’t rejecting her. He was respecting her.

“Besides,” Aidan continued, “you have a career to build back in Europe. How could I possibly stand in your way?”

For a moment, an ugly look crossed Isabelle’s face. She tested the waters. “What if… what if I wasn’t planning on going back?”

Aidan cut her off. “Don’t lie to me. I know you better than that. You’re meant to chase your dreams. You’re not like all those other women who just want to get married and have kids.”

Isabelle swallowed the words she was about to say.

Aidan brought in the clothes Chloe had bought. Isabelle looked at the shopping bags, and her face soured. Aidan glanced at the brand names and understood immediately. He pulled out his phone and texted Chloe. [Isabelle doesn’t like this designer’s aesthetic. She won’t wear their clothes. Go buy something else.]

Next, they went to the living room. Seeing the lavish spread of food from the restaurant, Isabelle frowned again.

Aidan texted Chloe again. [Isabelle doesn’t eat food like this, it’s too fattening. And she doesn’t want Western food right after coming back. Go to that Cantonese place I like and pick up a new order. Bring it here.]

Isabelle put on a gracious expression. “It’s fine, really. I can eat this.”

Aidan looked at her pale face, his heart aching for her. He thought for a moment, then sent one more text. [Isabelle’s not feeling well. I’m taking her out of the city for a few days to get some fresh air. We’ll be back before the anniversary.]

He waited. The person who usually replied in seconds was silent.

Annoyed, Aidan tried to call Chloe.

The call went straight to voicemail.

Did she block me?

Suddenly, his eyes landed on the cake sitting on the console table. The inscription made him pause. Why would she have the anniversary cake delivered here?

Then, a flash of light caught his eye.

Next to the cake, sat her engagement ring.

6

The weather was clear and bright. A perfect day for a trip, or a move.

With a five-million-dollar severance package in my bank account, I made a clean and efficient exit. I wanted to be long gone before Isabelle woke up.

I checked into an executive suite at The St. Regis and immediately passed out. Before I did, I posted a vague, melodramatic Instagram story hinting at a breakup, officially announcing my split from Aidan.

When I woke up, my phone was dead.

I plugged it in, and the moment it turned on, it began to vibrate uncontrollably, a relentless stream of notifications. Dozens of missed calls and messages from Aidan.

I scrolled through them, my eyes flying across the screen.

[Chloe, what the hell is this? Are you throwing a tantrum now?]

[Are you mad because I asked you to take care of Isabelle?]

[She was in a bathtub trying to kill herself when I found her. Do you have any compassion at all?]

He’d also sent a picture.

My engagement ring, tossed into a wastebasket along with the five-year anniversary cake.

My eyes stopped on the last message.

[You have the nerve to do this? Fine. Don’t even think about coming back!]

Oh. Okay. So he wanted me to not come back.

Feeling entirely justified, I ignored his calls.

But it didn’t take long for me to see his activity on social media. The story of Isabelle’s plagiarism had followed her from London to New York. The amateur designer she’d allegedly stolen from, Sirius, was apparently an American citizen of Chinese descent. And, just hours ago, he had landed back in the country.

A blurry paparazzi shot from the airport flashed across my screen. A man with dark hair and striking green eyes, six-foot-two at least, so handsome he didn't look real. The photo was deleted almost as soon as it went up, suggesting he was someone important.

At the height of the scandal, Aidan posted a single, arrogant sentence on his X account: [The ants always rejoice when the swan stumbles.]

The comments were a bloodbath of mockery, with a few of their die-hard “shippers” mixed in. Thankfully, sane people still seemed to rule the internet.

Then, Sirius himself posted something.

[The blind man plucked the moon from the sky, but didn't know how to cherish it.]

[So, I've come to chase the moon once more.]

It was cryptic and poetic, and no one knew what to make of it. People guessed it had nothing to do with the plagiarism case. After all, he wasn't the one who had posted the original proof that Isabelle had copied his design. This felt different, like a declaration of intent from someone coming to win back a lost love.

One commenter asked: [Did you come back to pursue someone you love?]

The author liked the comment.

Immediately, internet sleuths discovered that years ago, the Sirius account had posted from a location tag that matched Isabelle’s old high school.

The speculation exploded. [Wait, is he so magnanimous that the person he’s chasing is ISABELLE?!]

The shippers went wild. [Sirius: I did all this just so you would finally see me!]

[So we’ve been dragging this plagiarist for weeks, and it turns out it was just some kind of weird lover’s game?!]

The comments section devolved into chaos. Sirius remained silent.

But Isabelle, who had been hiding for days, suddenly emerged.

She posted: [You cannot force love. To grasp at the moon in the water is only to push it further away.]

Suddenly, dozens of new accounts popped up, all pushing the same narrative:

The “moon” Sirius was talking about was Isabelle.

The starlit dress was designed for Isabelle.

Sirius had used the plagiarism accusation as a twisted way to get her attention.

And so on.

It was at that exact moment, as I stood in the hotel lobby scrolling through this mess, that someone called my name.

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