The Heiress's Loyal Pet

My fianc went behind my back and used my money to secretly set up a full trust fund for a broke high school girl from a rough neighborhood.

As my bulletproof Lincoln cruised past her public high school, I saw that girl with a death grip on the sleeve of a young man in a cheap, faded hoodie, calling him "Finnian" in a sickeningly sweet voice.

The young man had striking, sharp features. He stood tall and rigid with a straight back.

"Bring him to me," I said.

"Miss Sloane?"

I tilted my chin up, my voice deadpan. "I want to sponsor someone too. That boy."

Chapter 1

Alaric, my butler, never wasted time. Maeve's precious "Finnian" was soon standing right in front of me.

I was flipping through his file when they brought him in.

Finnian.

He was striking. Even a standard ID photo couldn't hide his sharp features. His bone structure alone could easily eclipse the current pop idol plastered across every billboard in the city.

But right now, he looked like a wreck. Exhaustion weighed on his shoulders, and dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes.

I already knew why.

Finnian was an orphan from a dirt-poor background. His only living relative, his grandmother, had just been diagnosed with late-stage liver cancer and was hooked up to machines in a hospital room.

He was his high school valedictorian, relying on a full-ride scholarship just to squeeze into this Ivy League university crawling with rich kids. Now, he had to work three part-time jobs a day just to pay off his grandmother's astronomical medical bills for experimental cancer drugs.

Everyone who knew him sang his praises. His resume was flawlessly clean.

Maeve was a childhood friend who grew up with him in that same poverty-stricken, crime-ridden neighborhood. They had known each other forever.

But a teenage girl's crush is impossible to hide.

I could see her adoration for him from a mile away.

No wonder Spencer had lost his mind over it.

Spencer usually kept his tailored cuffs buttoned tight and his gaze leveled. I had never seen a crack in his polished veneer. But lately, he kept zoning out, a dark storm brewing in his eyes.

Yesterday, before I even stepped into his corner office, I heard him on the phone. It was the condescending, commanding tone of an older man lecturing someone.

"Maeve," he had said, "finals are coming up. Focus on your grades. Keep your distance from those boys at school. You never really know what someone's true intentions are."

His knuckles turned white as he gripped the phone, his usually icy, composed voice clipping at the edges.

My hand paused right above the doorknob.

I had my private chef prepare a ridiculously expensive white truffle dinner to bring to him. But standing there, I suddenly lost all interest in sharing that meal with him.

Over the years, his attitude toward me had become painfully dismissive. Even his basic greetings felt like business transactions. He never cared who I was with or what I was doing.

But then again, he treated everyone like that.

Until the news reached my ears that he was sponsoring a broke student.

Spencer was not the type of man to do charity work.

Yet he had planted an entire field of flowers just for her. He took her out on his yacht to watch the sunrise, walked with her through every corner of the city, and dropped serious cash to buy her a spot in an elite foreign exchange program.

He even got jealous like some dumb teenager.

Everyone in our circle whispered that he was keeping a secret pet.

At first, a sharp breath hitched in my throat. Then, I just wanted to drop the shears and walk away. After all, I had held onto this man for so many years.

"Miss Sloane," Alaric frowned, hesitating. "About Mr. Spencer sponsoring that girl"

Alaric was a butler handpicked by my family. He was fiercely loyal, but he wasn't exactly a boy scout. Sometimes, his methods crossed the line.

His eyes darkened, fully prepared to eliminate Maeve as a stumbling block for me.

"Let's go," I interrupted him.

Forget it.

Throwing a tantrum was pointless. It would just make me look like some desperate, bitter housewife. I didn't even have the energy to bring it out into the open.

He deliberately hid it from me. What was the point of confronting him with the truth? Slap the evidence on his desk and force a confession?

In his eyes, that would just be forcing him to make a choice.

And he might actually choose me. After all, that's what he had always done before.

My family was an untouchable empire. And I, Sloane, was their only daughteran eccentric cripple.

I was a massive piece of fat meat that everyone lusted after.

Or, to put it more accurately, I was a rotting corpse. Even if I reeked, a flock of vultures would still circle above me, desperate to tear off a piece of flesh.

Chapter 2

I was the prize bride they picked apart behind closed doors, yet desperately clawed at each other to win. Even if Spencer dragged his feet, he would still fiercely defend this dead-in-the-water engagement.

Whenever my volatile temper flared up and I hurled accusations at him, he would just stand there, staring at me with that infuriating, deadpan expression. Then, once the storm passed, a box would appear on my deskhis version of an apology.

His assistant probably picked them out. A designer handbag one day, a diamond tennis bracelet the next. Zero actual thought went into it. But I never demanded an explanation, and the anger would just fizzle out on its own.

After all, everyone in our circle whispered that I was obsessed with him. I never bothered to correct them. Hell, even I believed it.

But now, the mere thought of what he was doing behind my back made bile rise in my throat. My stomach churned. I had never physically gagged at the thought of him before.

I stared at my reflection in the tinted glass of the car window. My skin looked like chalk.

Alaric took the hint. He sealed his lips, gripped the handles of my custom wheelchair, and rolled me away.

My body was a fragile, broken thing. It wasn't that my legs were paralyzed; my muscles were just too weak to hold my weight for more than a few minutes at a time.

Yet, when Finnian walked into the room and saw me in the chair, his face didn't twist into that nauseating mix of pity and shock I usually got. His gaze bypassed my legs. He kept his eyes respectfully lowered, his sharp features relaxed and unassuming.

Alaric pushed a thick trust fund sponsorship agreement across the mahogany desk. The terms were ridiculously loose. If he just signed on the dotted line, he would walk away with a massive cash checkmore than enough to wipe out every single one of his grandmother's medical bills.

Finnian's fingers curled into tight fists at his sides. Every gift had a price tag. He wasn't stupid; he knew there was no such thing as a free lunch.

Alaric, ever the smooth operator, caught his hesitation. He quickly spun a lie, explaining that Finnian had simply been randomly selected for a new corporate charity initiative.

I kept my mouth shut, even though the excuse sounded like a cheap cover-up.

I was betting every dollar I had that Finnian wouldn't say no. The world was currently suffocating him.

Spencer wouldn't get his own hands dirty targeting a nobody like Finnian. But the moment Spencer let slip a hint of irritation, a swarm of ass-kissers would trip over themselves to solve the problem for him. They would effortlessly get Finnian fired from his jobs, kick his dying grandmother out of her hospital bed, and drop enough vicious rumors to make him a pariah on campus.

A man backed into a corner had zero room to negotiate. Who the hell was he going to call for help? Who could he even beg for an explanation?

Yet, he didn't utter a single note of agreement.

Not until Alaric stepped out and the heavy door clicked shut behind him.

"Miss Sloane." Finnian locked his clear, piercing gaze onto mine. He didn't flinch. "What's the catch?"

A wave of dizziness hit me. I leaned heavily against the edge of the desk, letting out a low, breathy hum.

Finnian caught the shift in my posture. He hovered in silence for a second before reaching for a crystal pitcher. He poured a glass of warm water and slid it across the polished wood. His long, calloused fingers gripping the glass looked like sculpted marble.

His lips started moving. The rushing sound in my ears drowned out his voice, but I could read the shape of his perfectly defined mouth. He was asking if he needed to call Alaric back in.

Sunlight caught the edges of my eyelashes. I squinted, dragging my gaze slowly over his striking jawline and restrained features.

A sudden jolt of dark satisfaction hit me. He was gorgeous. Definitely an upgrade from Maeve.

What was the catch? I hadn't figured that out yet. I was just curious.

My family owned half the city; the little secret Spencer busted his ass to hide landed on my desk in less than twelve hours. I just never gave a damn before. I had always looked the other way.

Chapter 3

I used to be consumed by Spencer. I clung to him. As long as he stayed by my side and threw me a few crumbs of affection, I was satisfied.

But this time was different. For the first time in years, my attention shifted to someone else.

Spencer had bragged to his country club friends that raising her was like cultivating a rare orchid. Watching her bloom, dependent on his sunlight and his water, shaping her into a flower that bloomed exclusively for him. He was addicted to that twisted sense of control.

He made it sound so intoxicating. I wanted a taste.

"I want to plant a tree," I said, my voice slow and deliberate. "I want to experience what it feels like. To give it sunlight, water, and watch it grow."

Finnian stiffened. The metaphor flew right over his head. A blank look washed over his sharp features.

I stifled a delicate yawn and dropped the poetry. "I'm going to keep you."

He was backed into a dead end. If I was his only lifeline, didn't that mean he would belong entirely to me?

Finnian went dead silent. A dark flush crept up the tips of his ears. The tight set of his jaw betrayed the sudden spike in his pulse. He swallowed hard, the words dying in his throat.

I knew how degrading that sounded, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I fully expected him to take it as a massive insult.

Yet, he just looked down at me. The harsh tension in his shoulders melted into a soft, defeated sigh. That icy, untouchable wall he had built around himself cracked just a fraction.

He actually crouched down in front of my chair. His large hands caught the heavy blanket slipping off my knees, pulling it back up and smoothly brushing a piece of lint off the fabric.

He wasn't playing the part of the outraged victim screaming about his crushed dignity like a character in a cheap soap opera.

"Miss Sloane" he started, his voice rough. He hesitated. "Does your family know you're doing this?"

It took my brain a solid minute to process what he was implying.

Because I survived a severe illness as a child, even though my family hired the world's most expensive private medical teams to pump me full of top-tier experimental nutrients, my frame remained drastically smaller and more fragile than anyone my age.

He actually thought I was a minor. He thought I needed daddy's permission to spend my own money.

A sharp, cold breath pushed through my teeth.

He knew damn well my net worth could crush him. Yet he wasn't terrified of me. He wasn't kissing the ground I walked on. He had the nerve to question my authority, treating my demands like a child playing house.

Maeve always looked at Spencer with wide-eyed worship. She practically treated him like a god who walked on water. Spencer fed off that pathetic devotion.

But Finnian was looking at me like I was a bratty little sister throwing a tantrum. He was patronizing me.

My teeth ground together. I kicked out my leg, aiming straight for his knee. There was zero force behind it, but my expensive flat slipped off my heel and hit the floor.

I had a history of throwing unhinged tantrums. Whenever I snapped, Spencer would just turn his back and walk out the door. The rest of the staff would scatter like terrified roaches.

But Finnian didn't even flinch. He took the hit dead on. A dusty footprint stamped perfectly onto his cheap white shirt.

I froze, thrown off by his lack of reaction.

"I'm keeping you, and it's none of their damn business." I slowly pulled my leg back. "So from now on, you answer to me. You come the second I call."

He stayed silent for a heavy beat. Surprisingly, he didn't try to negotiate. Instead, he dropped to one knee, picked up my fallen shoe, and carefully slid it back onto my foot.

"Alright." Finnian lifted his chin, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "I understand."

I swore I felt the ghost of a sigh brush against my ankle, but maybe I imagined it.

After he walked out the door, I called Alaric back in.

"I had the old tailors on Savile Row rush-order a few bespoke suits overnight," I said, my fingers casually tracing the edge of the ridiculously expensive cashmere throw draped over my knees. "Have them delivered to him."

Chapter 4

That bespoke tailor shop from Savile Row was the absolute symbol of old money status in the entire Upper East Side of Manhattan. Those nouveau riche families had to pull a number and wait in agony for over six months, but our family never needed to.

Alaric instinctively asked, "Are they for Mr. Spencer"

Spencer who? My brain hadn't caught up. My gaze locked onto that glaring dirty footprint on Finnian's shirt. Didn't he know how to dodge?

A birch tree with a muddy stain on its bark just ruined the aesthetic.

Alaric knew me too well. One glance at my face, and he smoothly swapped the name. "For Mr. Finnian."

He was just a college kid. What was with the 'Mister'? I frowned. "Don't call him Mr. Finnian. Call him"

Alaric respectfully lowered his head, waiting for my final verdict.

I stalled for a solid minute. "Just call him my sapling!"

I was slowly beginning to understand the sick thrill Spencer had bragged about.

The first time Finnian met me, his clothes were washed clean, but the fabric was visibly worn thin. His shoes were the same, clearly dragging through years of use. I sent him new clothes, and he put them on without a word.

I hated that he was surviving on cheap instant mac and cheese and discounted bread. I immediately had my private Michelin-starred chef deliver custom high-protein meals to him every single day. Just as I wanted, his pale cheeks regained their color, and his broad shoulders finally filled out the fabric of his shirts.

I hated watching him exhaust himself taking care of his grandmother, so I simply moved her into a VIP private suite and hired a dedicated medical team around the clock.

Finnian didn't reject anything. But every single time, he would look me in the eye and seriously thank me.

He kept a meticulous mental ledger of every cent. "I will pay you back, Miss Sloane."

"I don't need your money." My tone was flat. A thought crossed my mind, and I tipped my chin up, fully embracing the arrogance.

"Since I'm sponsoring you, I only sponsor the absolute best. You're going to rank first in your department this semester, right?"

It was phrased as a question, but it was a hard command.

Finnian froze for a second, then gave a sharp nod. "Done."

He carefully chose his next words, asking what I liked. He was probably trying to scrape together some kind of return gift.

I found it unnecessary. I almost snapped back and asked what he could possibly afford. But watching him stand there in the sunlight, looking so impossibly clean and sharp, the dark mood evaporated.

He was already a striking guy. Now, dressed in thousands of dollars of bespoke tailoring, he looked like absolute royalty. Was this what planting a tree felt like? No wonder Spencer was addicted.

The dopamine hit was real.

"I like plants," I said, resting my chin on my hand. "No flowers. They die too easily."

Finnian just stared at me.

He nodded, and he actually brought me a succulent he had grown himself.

That was entirely different from Spencer.

Whenever I gave Spencer a gift, he would take it, and it would disappear into a black hole. He never bothered to say thank you. He just acted like he was entitled to it.

I honestly didn't care before. But now I knew exactly what it felt like to actually get a response. It was like dropping a coin into a wishing well and finally hearing the splash.

It sounded nice.

So, my target for gift-giving abruptly shifted from Spencer to Finnian. I even bought a massive custom greenhouse just for this, filling it with lush potted plants. Every single one was from Finnian. It quickly turned into an ocean of green.

It wasn't until Spencer finally showed up at my door that I realized how long it had been since I last saw him. Or how long it had been since I bothered to text him.

But I kept a tight lock on the news that I was sponsoring Finnian. After all, Spencer went out of his way to hide his little charity project with Maeve. I thought that was perfectly fair.

The only difference was that his cover was blown, while mine was airtight. Spencer only knew that some ghost billionaire had thrown a protective shield over Finnian. His lackeys couldn't lay a finger on Finnian anymore. Instead, they avoided the guy like the plague, terrified to cross the invisible line.

Chapter 5

He was frantically digging for information while carefully avoiding me. The stress was eating him alive, and a nasty breakout had even flared up on his forehead.

The second I saw him, I froze.

Then I slowly looked away, my nose crinkling in disgust. He looked awful. Finnian was leagues above him.

"Sloane," he said, his tone flat. "I've been buried in networking events lately and haven't had time to see you. Dinner tonight?"

Finnian had already promised to cook for me tonight.

I had zero interest in eating with Spencer.

Just as I opened my mouth to turn him down, Spencer smoothly changed the subject. "By the way, that Savile Row tailor hasn't contacted me this month. I have a major gala coming up, and I don't have the right suit."

Those tailors used to custom-make three bespoke suits for Spencer every single month. That was my direct order.

But this month's suits were already hanging in Finnian's closet. Spencer got nothing.

Alaric, who had personally delivered them for me, didn't even bat an eyelid.

I gave him a weird look. "Then go talk to the tailor."

Why was he complaining to me? I wasn't the one measuring his inseam.

But without my name attached, those elite tailors wouldn't even look in Spencer's direction. He wasn't in their tax bracket.

Spencer went quiet for a few seconds. He dragged a heavy breath through his teeth, a muscle feathering in his jaw. "Stop playing games."

I watched him, totally amused. "They're busy right now. You can go pull a number and wait in line."

It finally seemed to click in his brain that my reaction was off.

Spencer stared at me. He hesitated for a second, then forced his voice into a softer register. "Sloane, are you upset because I haven't been around lately?"

I looked him up and down. The more I looked, the more I realized that older men really needed to invest in a solid skincare routine.

Spencer's phone buzzed.

He was probably so distracted that he forgot to hide the screen from me, looking straight down at the notification.

It was obviously a text from Maeve. I didn't even try to snoop, but I caught a glimpse of a photo.

"My friend is shooting the Ivy League promo photos today! I came to help hand out water and stuff >w<"

The guy in the photo was incredibly familiar. It was Finnian.

Finnian had already told me about the promo shoot. Seeing him wearing the bespoke suit I bought him instantly put me in a better mood.

Spencer only took one look. He ignored Maeve's caption and froze dead in his tracks.

He zoomed in on the photo, the harsh lines of his face going completely slack, leaving behind a dead, empty stare.

Then, his fingers started to shake. His knuckles turned bone-white as he glared at the custom monogram on Finnian's cuff. It was the exclusive signature of that Savile Row tailor. He had worn it for years; there was no way he could mistake it.

It felt like minutes passed, or maybe just a few seconds