Chapter 27 JUNIPER
I did need the money.
Badly.
Dad’s treatment had to start yesterday. Every single day we waited made the cancer dig deeper, made the odds worse. And Knox knew it.
He could see it all over my face, the way my shoulders slumped, the way my eyes darted away like a cornered animal.
Fuck.
I needed the money more than I needed my pride right now.
I drew in a slow, shaky breath, then let it out through my nose, forcing my spine to straighten even as my stomach twisted.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, hating how small my voice sounded.
Knox’s eyes narrowed instantly, that dark gaze pinning me in place like a butterfly on a board.
“No,” he said, voice firm and leaving zero room for negotiation.
“Tell me now. Right now. I’m not walking out of here without an answer, Speckles.”
I glared at him, but the fight was draining out of me fast, replaced by the crushing weight of reality.
The endless hospital bills. The lost wages from Dad missing work. The fear of watching him deteriorate while I scraped together pennies that would never be enough.
“How much do you need?” he asked quietly, almost gently—if gentle could come from a guy who was blackmailing me with a compromising photo.
I stayed silent, mind spinning through the nightmare numbers I’d been avoiding all night.
Knox leaned against the sink, crossing his arms, that arrogant smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Come on, Speckles. Don’t make me guess. Think of it as all your worries gone in one click. A part-time job that pays fucking good money. No strings beyond the act. Three months, maybe four. Then you walk away with your dad’s treatment covered and the photo deleted. Easy.”
“Easy for you,” I snapped, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.
“Must be nice, throwing money around like confetti while the rest of us drown. What’s the catch, Knox? Besides parading me around like your personal trophy so your ego gets stroked?”
He chuckled, low and dark.
“The catch is you have to pretend you don’t hate me. Think you can manage that without your face cracking, princess?”
“Don’t call me princess,” I shot back, voice sharper now.
“And don’t pretend this is some generous favor. You’re blackmailing me. Let’s not dress it up with pretty words.”
Knox pushed off the sink and stepped closer, eyes gleaming with challenge.
“Blackmail is such an ugly word. I prefer ‘mutually beneficial arrangement.’ You get cash. I get a believable girlfriend who’ll keep my family off my back. Win-win. Or are you too proud to admit you need me?”
I laughed bitterly.
“Need you? I need the money. There’s a difference. You’re just the rich asshole standing in the way of it.”
“Rich asshole who can solve your problems with one tap on his phone,” he countered, tilting his head.
“Admit it—you’re tempted. I can see the wheels turning behind those pretty eyes. Calculating how much you can squeeze out of me before the three months are up.”
My cheeks burned, but I lifted my chin.
“Fine. You want honesty? I’m tempted because my dad is sick and the world doesn’t give a damn. Not because I like anything about you. Your smirk? Annoying. Your attitude? Exhausting. The way you think every girl should drop at your feet? Disgusting.”
“Yet here you are, still talking instead of walking away,” he said, voice laced with triumph.
“So tell me, Juniper—what’s it going to be? Yes or no? Clock’s ticking.”
The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.
I could feel every bill, every missed payment, every night Dad winced in pain. My pride screamed at me to tell him to go to hell. But survival whispered louder.
I turned slowly and stared at the girl in the mirror.
Wow.
The sarcasm practically dripped off the thought.
Look at you — the picture of dignity.
Tears smudged, hoodie wrinkled, hair doing… whatever that is.
I snorted under my breath.
Truly, a vision.
Every man’s dream.
Knox Reyes should be honored.
I dragged a hand down my face.
Are you seriously about to play dress‑up for a guy who thinks God created him on a special setting labeled “Premium Edition”?
Pathetic.
Absolutely pathetic.
And yet here I am, actually weighing the cost like some bargain‑hunter at a clearance sale.
Fuck.
If I said yes, I’d walk out there on his arm like some rented accessory — the bargain-bin girlfriend package.
Smiling on cue.
Laughing at his jokes.
Pretending I didn’t want to knee him in the balls every five minutes or punch him in the throat every time he opens that smug mouth.
I’d be polished, posed, and painfully replaceable.
The human equivalent of a prop.
And then, because apparently I enjoy emotionally waterboarding myself, another voice in my head chimes in, louder this time:
Stop whining, Juniper. You’re getting a great deal here. Bills paid. Disaster delayed. Dignity only slightly singed. Your worries? Practically evaporated with one little transfer. Congrats, sweetheart—you’ve officially signed up for a three-month trial of Stability™, auto-renewing in shame and self-loathing.
I groaned at my own reflection, the sound low and miserable.
Pathetic.
The worst part?
I already knew I was going to do it.
Not because he was bullying me.
Not because he was blackmailing me with that stupid photo.
It was because I fucking needed the money.
Dad’s treatment couldn’t wait another week.
Every day we delayed, the cancer dug in deeper, the pain sharpened, the odds got worse. Chemo, radiation, surgery, medications—the list never ended, and neither did the fear that I was already too late. I needed this.
Dad needed this.
He’d already lost so much—his strength, his job, the quiet confidence that used to fill our tiny apartment.
I couldn’t let him lose the fight too.
I hated Knox.
I hated how easily he’d cornered me, how he’d spotted every crack in my armor and pressed straight into them with that arrogant, dark-eyed smirk.
I hated that he knew exactly how desperate I was.
Most of all, I hated the cold little calculator in my head that was already tallying exactly how much more I could squeeze out of him before the three months ended— twenty thousand? Thirty? Whatever it took to keep Dad stable, to buy us more time, to silence the 3 a.m. dread that whispered he might not make it to next year.
Fine.
If he wanted to be a tyrannical asshole, then I’d be the gold-digger.
This wasn’t weakness.
This was strategy.
This was me doing what I had to do when the world left no other options.
It was survival.
My dad’s survival.
If swallowing my pride meant Dad got to fight another round, then I’d swallow it whole. I’d choke it down until it stopped tasting like defeat and started tasting like hope—however ugly that hope looked. Because hating Knox didn’t pay the bills.
And for Dad… I’d do far worse than play fake girlfriend for three months.
I splashed cold water on my face, the icy shock jolting me just enough to dull the self-disgust churning in my stomach.
Then I re-applied my nude lipstick with a steady hand that felt like a complete lie, and twisted one rebellious strand of hair back into place with practiced precision.
I swallowed hard, the calculation still burning in my chest like acid. I turned the water off and straightened my shoulders.
“Fine,” I said, the word tasting like defeat and battery acid on my tongue.
“I’ll be your fake girlfriend.”
A slow, victorious smile spread across Knox’s face—the same crooked, dimpled smirk that made other girls stupid. This time it looked almost relieved, like he’d been holding his breath.
“Smart choice, Speckles,” he drawled, voice dripping with signature sarcasm.
“Knew you’d come around. Pride is cute and all, but it doesn’t pay medical bills. How much do you need?”
“Thirty thousand,” I shot back immediately, lifting my chin and locking eyes with him.
“To start. For the first round of treatment and bills. If it’s more… we renegotiate.”
Knox didn’t even blink.
He pulled out his phone, thumbs flying across the screen with casual ease.
“Done. Give me your bank details.”
I rattled them off quickly, hating how easily the numbers left my mouth—like I was selling pieces of my soul at a discount.
“Check it.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I didn’t pull it out. I couldn’t.
Wow. Some people really have it all. He hadn’t even broken a sweat. Thirty thousand dollars—just like that. Money that would have taken me years, maybe my whole life, of scraping tips at the diner, working doubles, and skipping meals to earn. And he sent it like he was ordering a damn latte
The weight of what I was agreeing to settled over me like lead, heavy and suffocating.
“Welcome to the team,” he said smoothly, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
“Try not to fall in love with me too fast. I’d hate to break your poor little heart when the three months are up.”
I glared at him, exhaustion and fury twisting into something brittle and sharp.
“Trust me,” I said coldly,
“falling in love with you is the last thing on my mind. I’d rather fall into a vat of fryer grease at a diner.”
He chuckled, low and dark, the sound vibrating through the small space and sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
“Ouch. Careful, Speckles. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you like the banter.”
“Banter?” I scoffed, rolling my eyes so hard it almost hurt.
“This is me tolerating you for cash. Big difference. Don’t flatter yourself.”
Knox stepped closer again, eyes dark and dangerously bright at the same time.
“Three months,” he reminded me, voice dropping.
“We make it look real. Hand-holding, lingering looks, the whole nauseating package. Then we’re done. No hard feelings.”
I nodded once, sharp and final, even as my stomach clenched.
“No hard feelings.”
He stepped aside like a king bestowing a favor on a peasant, cracking the door open and listening for footsteps in the hallway. He glanced back at me, that infuriating smirk still in place.
“Now smile, princess.”
I lifted my chin, forcing my lips into the perfect, practiced curve even as venom burned in my throat.
“I said don’t call me a fucking princess.”
His mouth curves — slow, smug, delighted with himself.
“You’re right,” he says, eyes dragging over my hoodie, my scuffed sneakers, my entire tragic aesthetic.
“Princess is a stretch. You look more like…” He tilts his head, pretending to think.
“A pauper who got lost on her way to a lost‑and‑found box.”
My jaw clenches.
He keeps going, because of course he does.
“We’re definitely going to need a makeover,” he says, tone bright and cruelly cheerful.
“Wouldn’t want my fake-girlfriend looking like she crawled out of a donation bin.”
The words lands like a slap — all mockery, all challenge.
WTF.
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