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The Master Of Deception's Richest Game

Chapter 4 4

Word Count: 658    |    Released on: 22/01/2026

tual superiority. Antoinette dragged Kellen into the room by his

ting to a wooden stool i

ed the cat ears, pla

extbook titled Advanced Macroeconomic Theory. She

" she slurred. "You're just a body. A pretty, e

fiscal multipliers and government spending. Her words were runnin

ation. She stared at the

he muttered. "Why

eemed to mock her. She grabbed a heavy

tion!" she

arker whizzed past his ear and hit the wa

"Explain it to me! Tell me wha

MIT two years ago, studying at the public library until they kicked him out at cl

He looked at the floo

ey circulates, Ma'am? Like... one dolla

her brain trying to process his

ess," she

iously. She made a mistake in the third line of the calcul

hed. He wanted to correct her. It

?" he ask

napped, not t

y the marginal propensity

d. She saw the minus sign she had written.

he said. "I wa

e lost her balance. Her heel caught on

d that belied his relaxed posture. He caught her by the

he heat radiating off her skin. She looked up at him, her eyes unfocused. In the dim light of the stud

was open, ready to slap the

t pull away. He stared her dow

seemed to say. A

n, it dropped to her side. The anger drained out of he

issed," she

Kellen stood over her, the textbook in his hand. He glanced at the page she ha

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The Master Of Deception's Richest Game
The Master Of Deception's Richest Game
“I spent three years playing the perfect "placeholder" boyfriend for a billionaire's rebellious daughter. I was the safety net, the companion, and the professional distraction paid to keep her out of trouble until she reached her "real" future. But the moment she turned twenty-one, her father slid a fifty-thousand-dollar check across a polished mahogany desk and told me I was a defective appliance being disposed of. He demanded I sign a non-disclosure agreement and disappear forever, treating my years of service like a common trash pickup. I walked out of the estate with a face full of tragic longing, making sure the security cameras caught my wet eyes. But the second the iron gates slammed shut, I wiped my face and opened "Proxy," a high-end app for the 1% who need hired bodies for their dirty emotional work. I didn't have the luxury of a broken heart; I had a foster home to roof and dialysis bills to pay. My next gig was a "hazard pay" nightmare with Antoinette Lowe, a cold-blooded professor who used me as a vessel for her grief. One hour I was wearing a five-thousand-dollar tuxedo while she hurled porcelain vases at my head, screaming about the man who left her at the altar. The next, she had me in a French maid outfit, scrubbing her kitchen floors on my hands and knees while she mocked my dignity. I became her ghost, her servant, and her scripted lover, whispering "you are breathtaking" for a five-hundred-dollar bonus while a silent timer vibrated on my wrist. I lived my life in fragments: a silent audience for a violent cellist by night, and a commanding voice on a headset for a girl who couldn't sleep. I was everyone's everything, yet I was becoming a man with no face of my own. I realized then that these people didn't want a human; they wanted a mirror that didn't bleed. Antoinette started believing the lies I sold her, convinced she was my muse instead of my paycheck. She didn't see the calculation in my eyes or the way I analyzed her every weakness just to stay in character. "I am whatever you need me to be, Ms. Lowe," I told her, my voice a perfect mask of devotion. The obsession is growing, the roles are bleeding together, and the danger is peaking. But as long as the deposit clears, I'll keep playing the game until there's nothing left of me to sell.”