Chapter 4 The Choice that Changed It All
Ysara POV
I laughed. “I swear to God, Marley, only you would suggest prostitution as emotional first aid.”
“It’s not prostitution,” she huffed. “It’s… capitalism in stripper heels. And you’re hot enough to make Jeff Bezos cry.”
“Gross.”
“But am I wrong?”
…no.
She softened. “Just look, Ysa. You need help. They’ve got it. Worst case, you laugh at the profiles. Best case? You get Mommy a new heart.”
We said goodbye, and the room fell quiet again. I sat there, with my hair dripping water down my back, staring at my laptop like it was a loaded gun. Then, finally, with shaky fingers and a heart bruised from too much feeling....
I opened it. The cursor blinked at me, accusing, inviting, almost like it was alive. The search bar waited. My breath shuddered.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Show me what desperation looks like.”
And I typed: seekanarrangement.com
The website loaded with a soft chime. Clean white graphics and gold accents glided across my laptop screen like they were trying to seduce me personally. And honestly? It was working a little.
SeekAnArrangement.com.
The homepage flashed a rotating banner of gorgeous men in suits so sharp they probably had their own legal counsel. Below them:
Featured in Horbes, Fanity Fair, Cosmololita, Business US, and several network TV specials.
Verified. Secure. Exclusive.
I scrunched my nose. “Okay, fancy website. Calm your titties. I just got here.”
But damn… it really was beautiful. Professional. Polished. Legit enough that I didn’t immediately picture getting murdered and turned into a lampshade. I clicked through a few tabs. High-end matchmaking. Companionship agreements. Private profiles. Annual millionaire verification.
My eyebrows climbed into my hairline. So Marley wasn’t exaggerating, these men were stupid rich. I scrolled past profiles of men who looked ripped straight from magazine covers or villain arcs I would happily submit myself to.
CEO. Investor. Billionaire heir. Tech mogul. Private island owner. One guy whose profile simply said “Wealthy enough.”
I snorted. “Show-off.”
But the truth hit me square in the chest: I needed money. Fast. And the universe had just handed me a glittering doorway made out of desperation and hot men with black Amex cards.
Was this messy? Yes. Morally ambiguous? Probably.
Insane? Completely. But insanity and I had been on intimate terms since childhood, so it wasn’t like this was a departure from my brand.
I clicked Create Profile. The screen asked for photos. Well. That part I had covered. I dragged in a handful of my hottest pictures, nothing explicit, just enough skin and curve to suggest I possessed both confidence and a dangerous amount of chaotic energy. Me in soft lighting, my inked thighs showing beneath a silky robe. Me laughing on my couch with my pastel hair curled and wild. Me in a forest-themed photoshoot, barefoot with leaves in my hair because of course I’d already done that long before I made the woods-kink comment.
The algorithm probably wept with joy.
Next: Bio.
I cracked my knuckles dramatically and typed...
Need a sugar daddy who can keep up with me.
I’m crazy in the good way.
If you wouldn’t chase me barefoot through the woods and claim me against a tree, don’t message me.
Must love dogs. Must love chaos. Must love women who refuse to shrink.
I reread it. Feral. Unhinged. Honest. Perfect. I clicked Submit. A little animation of gold confetti exploded across the screen. Then it was done. I’d just put myself into the digital wolf pit.
I closed the laptop and stared at the ceiling, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
“Maybe this will work,” I whispered.
Maybe I’d find a rich, sexy sugar daddy willing to spoil me rotten while I saved my mom’s life one private dinner date at a time. Maybe he’d pay the medical bills. Maybe he’d want cuddles and laughter and deep conversations about the nature of the universe while I wore cute pajamas and judged his tie collection.
And maybe… when all of this was over… I could go back to doing what I actually loved: Making art online. Making weird content. Being my wild, curated, sparkly mess of a self. I imagined myself handing my mom a brand new heart like a deranged fairy godmother.
“Surprise! I got this for you. No returns.”
A laugh escaped me, it was thin, but real. I opened the laptop again and clicked on my OnlyFans dashboard.
Thousands of notifications exploded across the screen like a fireworks finale.
Messages. Comments. Tips. Donations. People asking if I was okay. Guilt knifed me. God, I’d left them hanging mid-meltdown.
I hit Go Live.
My ring light cast a soft glow across my face, enough to hide the emotional carnage but not enough to erase it entirely. Makeup could only do so much.
“Hey, babes,” I began, my voice hoarse but steady. “I’m so sorry for disappearing on you like a tornado with commitment issues.”
Hearts floated up the screen. I ignored them before I cried again.
“I owe you an update. My mom… she’s really sick. Like terrifyingly sick. And I didn’t want to dump that on anyone earlier. You know I’m usually the fun chaos gremlin bringing entertainment, not the sad girl monologuing like a tragic indie-film protagonist.”
More messages. More hearts. More support. It cracked something in me.
“But listen,” I continued, wiping the underside of my eye carefully, “I’m not asking for pity. I don’t want your sorrow. What I do want is just, keep me in your thoughts. Donate if you can. Share the love if you can’t. Everything helps.”
I hesitated. Should I say it? Yes. Fuck it. Full send.
“And because apparently I am the queen of impulsivity,” I said with a huff, “I decided to do something wild. I signed up for a sugar baby website. A high end, verified, all legit site. So if you see me out there? No you didn’t.”
The comments exploded.
WHICH SITE??
QUEEN WHAT ARE YOU DOING
DROP THE LINK
WHAT IN THE CHAOS GREMLIN ENERGY IS THIS
I grinned, leaning forward. “I’m not telling you which one. That’s the game. I’ve already hidden. Let’s see if you can find me.”
I winked. And signed off. The moment the livestream ended, the silence flooded back, thick and heavy like before, but different now. A new kind of tension settled over me. Hope mixed with dread. Excitement braided with fear.
I'd just placed myself on a global stage without understanding the rules. I shut the laptop again and pressed my palms over my face. My pulse throbbed. My thoughts spun. My exhaustion settled deep into my bones.
You did this, I reminded myself. For her. For Mom. For family. I crawled onto the bed, still wrapped in my towel, and lay flat on my back. The room was dim. The woods outside were pitch black. The hotel hum felt like a heartbeat against my skull.
“If this works,” I whispered, “I’m buying myself a damn crown.”
I didn’t know it yet.....but four sets of eyes had already found me.
And the monsters had begun to move.
\~~~~~
The next morning....
My phone screamed on the nightstand long before the sun was allowed to exist.
I groaned, flopped a hand over my face, and fumbled blindly until my thumb hit the screen.
LILA: Everything is taken care of.
She’s stable. Dad and I stayed all night. Rest. I love you.
My throat closed so fast it felt like swallowing glass. I sat upright, pressed the phone to my chest, and let myself cry, quiet, shaking, messy tears that soaked into the duvet. Relief and grief tangled together until I couldn’t tell which was which.
When I finally peeled myself out of bed, the sunrise bleeding into the hotel room felt too bright, too hopeful, and too cruel.
I packed my things, did a quick scan of the hotel room to make sure I hadn’t left anything emotional or expensive behind, then threw myself into my purple BMW and drove the last hour home.
The city streets were mostly empty, and the skyscrapers glowed golden at the edges like they were stretching awake. My loft sat in a renovated warehouse in LoDo. There were brick walls, big windows, and witchy chaos everywhere. My sanctuary.
I showered, dressed, slapped on makeup that made me look deceptively functional, and stared at myself in the mirror. Something felt… off. Not wrong, exactly. More like… charged. Like someone had plugged me into an outlet while I was asleep.
My skin buzzed faintly. My blood felt carbonated. My chest felt tight, but not from anxiety, more like energy pressing outward, and begging for release. I shook my arms out like that would fix it.
“Get it together,” I muttered. “Work face on. No emotions. No meltdowns. No chaos gremlin behavior before 10 a.m.”
The lie tasted stale. I grabbed my bag and headed out.
Wylde & Rafe Tower stood fifteen minutes away in the heart of Denver’s financial district, an obsidian and steel monolith reflecting the Rocky Mountains behind it. Every morning I looked up at it and felt small in a weirdly comforting way.
Today, though? Something in me looked up and felt… bigger. Too big. I took a steadying breath and walked in. The lobby smelled like expensive cologne and polished marble. The elevator whooshed me to the 28th floor, and the moment the doors opened....
“Ysa,” Evander drawled, appearing out of nowhere like a librarian ghost with perfect timing. “Darling, sweetheart, apocalypse in your eyes much?”
He looked immaculate as always in a navy suit, silver tie, and glasses that made him look trustworthy until he opened his mouth.
I forced a smile. “Hi, Evan.”
“No. Absolutely not.” He stepped closer, lowering his glasses with one finger. “That tone was illegal. That tone says ‘I am either about to cry or burn the building down.’ Which one?”
I exhaled through my teeth. “Neither. I’m fine.”
He gasped dramatically. “Lies. Blasphemy. Scandal. Ysa, come on. Something is really wrong, I can tell. Talk to me. Or...” his voice pitched up, hopeful “....do you want a latte? I will personally fetch you caffeine and carbs so we can gossip like civilized adults.”
I groaned despite myself. “You’re relentless.”
“And you’re a bad liar.” He flicked my forehead gently. “Sit. I’ll go get breakfast. When I return, I expect vulnerability.”
He sashayed toward the elevator, muttering about croissants and emotional repression. I went to my desk, dropped my purse, clocked in at 8:59 like a punctual queen, and opened my inbox.
It was overflowing.
“Lovely,” I muttered. “Truly, the universe continues to outdo itself.”
Evander returned moments later with two lattes and a paper bag radiating buttery heat.
“Eat,” he commanded, setting everything down. “Now spill.”
I took a sip, then a breath. “My mom… she’s worse than we thought. She needs a heart transplant.”
Evan froze, the playful spark in his eyes dimming. “Oh, sweetheart. Damn. That’s… a lot.”
“Yeah.”
He set a hand over mine, gently squeezing. “Whatever you need, I’ve got you. I mean it.”
I nodded, swallowing all of my crazy emotions like a fist. What I didn’t tell him was everything else, the sugar daddy site, the desperation, and the spiraling nightmare my life had become.
Before he could pry more, the air in the room shifted.
Like, physically shifted. The temperature dipped. The fluorescent lights hummed. The hairs along my arms rose like static had crawled out of the walls.
Evander stiffened beside me, and his eyes flicked toward the hallway. I followed his gaze. And there they were.
Wyatt and Rafe Wylde.
The twin CEOs. The tower’s namesakes.
The rumored billionaires who somehow looked like gods slumming it in designer business suits.