1 After my twentieth girlfriend was branded a ruthless gold-digger by my supposed best friend, Austin Price, I finally threw in the towel. I surrendered to my family’s demands for a strategic merger and entered a whirlwind marriage with Nicole Whitmore, the sole heiress to the Whitmore real estate dynasty. Three weeks into our marriage, at a rooftop cocktail party in Manhattan, Austin swooped in. Nicole had barely taken half a bite of her Meyer lemon tart when Austin snatched it right out of her manicured fingers. Leaning over her with that practiced, faux-protective swagger he loved to pull on social media, he gave her a dazzling smile. “Nicole, honey, this is pure refined sugar. Awful for your skin. Tell you what—I’ll take the hit for you.” Before the pastry could reach his lips, I caught his wrist. My grip was steel. Austin didn’t look sheepish. Instead, his eyes flashed with that familiar, wounded indignation, his voice instantly pitching up so the rest of the table could hear. “What’s the big deal, Logan? I’m just testing your new wife’s character. Seeing if she knows how to share, if she gets defensive over trivial things. Why are you making a federal case out of it?” He shook his head, looking around the room as if inviting everyone to pity him. “We’ve been brothers for fifteen years. You don’t honestly think I’m hitting on your wife, do you?” In my past life, I would have bought it. I would have felt the familiar prickle of guilt, laughed nervously, and apologized for overreacting. Too bad for him, I wasn’t that person anymore. I had died once, and the grave has a way of clearing a man’s vision. Without a second thought, I grabbed the half-eaten tart off the marble table and slammed it directly into Austin’s smug, surgically refined face. “Who the hell are you to test anyone’s character?” I snarled, stepping into his space. The lemon curd dripped down his nose, smearing across his designer veneer. “You’re the son of my family’s chauffeur, Austin. Quit playing the billionaire heir.” I leaned down until my breath brushed his ear, loud enough for our entire circle of friends to hear every single syllable: “You don’t just want my wife. You’ve already mapped out how you’re going to crawl into her bed.” The entire patio went dead quiet. Several friends from our Upper East Side circle rushed over, murmuring in shock. Austin stood frozen, his face cycling from crimson to ashen beneath the yellow smear of pastry cream. It took him two full minutes to reboot his brain. He fumbled frantically for a napkin, wiping his cheek with trembling hands. “Logan, what is wrong with you?” he choked out, his voice cracking with theatrical betrayal. “If it weren’t for me filtering out those twenty gold-digging leeches over the years, do you really think you’d be standing here married to a woman like Nicole?” Beside me, Nicole’s eyebrows drew together. She knew I had a dating history, but she clearly hadn’t realized the headcount was that steep. I let out a low, humorless laugh, keeping my eyes pinned to Austin’s shifty gaze. “Every time I started seeing someone, you couldn’t wait to play the concerned, innocent best friend. You ran your little undercover loyalty tests behind my back. Is it any surprise I went through a girl every two months?” I tilted my head, letting the silence stretch before delivering the punchline. “By the way, Austin—I never so much as laid a finger on most of those girls. But you slept with plenty of them, didn’t you?” Austin’s father had been our family’s private driver. When I was in elementary school, an oncoming semi crossed the median, and his father threw the wheel, taking the brunt of the impact to save my dad’s life. His dying wish was for the Mercer family to look after his boy. My father, Arthur Mercer, was a man bound by honor. He didn’t just pay for Austin’s prep school and Ivy League tuition; he brought Austin under our roof. We grew up side by side. I called him a brother. When he started borrowing my watches, taking my sports cars for weekend trips, and posting pictures from our Hamptons estate to build an Instagram following of millions as an elusive trust-fund kid, I looked the other way. I thought it gave him a sense of dignity. I never imagined that beneath all his smiles lived a viper that couldn’t stand to see me breathe. In my previous life, the moment I married Nicole, Austin turned green with envy. He began whispering poison across town, orchestrating rumors that I was a degenerate sociopath with unspeakable sexual vices. To win his favor, those twenty ex-girlfriends—every single one of them seduced and manipulated by him—banded together. They slipped Rohypnol into my drink at an after-party, stripped me bare in a hotel suite, and took compromising photos to blast across every tabloid and social platform. The scandal destroyed my family’s business. The humiliation suffocated me. Ultimately, I walked off the edge of a high-rise balcony. It was only in the bitter, frozen seconds before my death that I learned the truth: Austin had been whispering in their ears the entire time, using my family’s name, claiming he was the real Mercer heir, seducing them, and then discarding them. Each time one fell for his advances, he’d run back to me with wide, teary eyes: “Logan, I swear I didn’t know she was like that. I only said a few words to her, and she threw herself at me. At least now you know what kind of woman she really is. Good riddance.” He washed his hands clean, leaving the wreckage entirely on me. A wave of visceral nausea hit the back of my throat. Austin’s eyes welled with practiced tears as he looked toward Nicole. “I didn’t do any of that,” he whimpered softly. “My dad raised me with morals. You know I was always home before ten on weeknights. How could I ever do something so disgusting? I haven’t even had a serious girlfriend myself…” The pure, innocent boy persona. Same script, second life. Disgusted down to my marrow, I pushed back my chair to walk away. Nicole’s fingers clamped around my forearm, yanking me back down. “Logan, stop making a scene. Austin meant well. It was a harmless joke, and it’s not like I fell for anything. You don’t have to worry—I’m not some shallow tramp, and I’m certainly not a gold-digger.” The phrasing sounded nauseatingly familiar. Every single one of my twenty exes had said those exact words before Austin reeled them in. He was already working his magic on her. Fine. Let him try. I leaned back into my chair, watching him coldly. This time around, I wanted to see if Austin Price could afford the fallout of blowing up a multi-billion-dollar merger between the Mercers and the Whitmores. 2 As the sole heir to the Whitmore estate, Nicole commanded respect in our circle. Seeing her take Austin’s side, our friends immediately softened their tone, closing ranks to smooth things over. “Come on, Logan, cut the guy some slack,” one of the guys chimed in. “You locked down Nicole Whitmore. What are you worried about? You think she’s going to run off?” “Exactly. Austin was just looking out for you.” “You two have been practically joined at the hip since childhood. Austin would never hurt you.” “Billionaire wife, devoted best friend—man, you’ve got it all. Stop picking fights and enjoy your life.” I dug my fingernails into my palms until the pain kept my temper tethered. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and stayed put. Austin flashed me a victorious, subtle smirk from beneath his lowered lashes. He slid into the empty seat beside me and casually rested his left arm on the glass table, tilting his wrist just enough so the ambient terrace lights caught the bezel of his watch. The gasp around the table was instantaneous. “Wait… Austin, is that the Patek Grandmaster Chime?” “Holy shit! There are only three of those in North America! One belongs to the hedge-fund titan Arthur Mercer… Wait, are you telling me you bought one?” Austin hadn’t realized the sheer pedigree of what he was wearing, but he didn’t miss a beat. He gave a languid, dismissive wave. “Oh, this? It’s nothing. We have vaults full of these at home.” A short bark of laughter nearly escaped me. That watch belonged to my father. How it wound up on Austin’s wrist wasn’t hard to guess. In our past life, he made a lucrative side hustle sneaking into my father’s walk-in safe, renting out rare watches and archival luxury pieces to wannabe influencers and fake-rich kids across Brooklyn and Manhattan. Clearly, this piece had been taken out for the same purpose. One of the guys at the end of the table frowned, shifting his gaze between Austin and me. “Wait a second… The Whitmores merged with the Mercer family. If Austin is the Mercer heir, then who is Logan?” The guy hesitated, lowering his voice into that oily, gossipy register people use when they think they’ve caught a scandal. “Is the rumor true? That Logan is just an adopted kid Arthur took in out of charity?” Another friend jumped right in. “That makes so much sense! I heard Arthur Mercer adopted his deceased driver’s son and treated him like his own flesh and blood. That must be Logan.” “To give away your family’s legacy and an arranged marriage to an adopted son just to pay back a debt? That’s wild.” “Honestly, what was Arthur Mercer thinking? Forcing Nicole to marry the chauffeur’s kid? Talk about insulting the Whitmore family.” “Austin and Nicole actually look so much better together anyway.” Austin’s face stiffened. My marriage to Nicole had happened fast—a strictly corporate union hammered out in boardrooms. He had assumed it was a love match; he had no idea the contracts were already signed between the patriarchs. Nicole’s expression darkened instantly. Her aristocratic pride was bleeding. The mere suggestion that she had been pawned off on an underling felt like a slap in her face. I pulled out my phone, leaning back as I casually scrolled through a local luxury-resale community app. “Funny,” I said mildly, letting my voice cut through their chatter. “I could swear I’ve seen this exact serial number floating around Soho street-style blogs for the last three weekends.” I paused, lifting my eyes to meet Austin’s panicked gaze. “All those fitness influencers posing in front of rented Lambos with this exact watch… Tell me, Austin, are you guys running some kind of timeshare on my dad’s heirloom?” Austin’s color drained until he looked like wet plaster. His eyes bulged with pure venom. He wasn’t used to this. In the old days, I was the compliant, protective brother who would have covered for him, smoothed over his lies, and bought him a new watch just to save him face. Cornered, and realizing the friends at the table were beginning to look at him with genuine skepticism, Austin snapped. “You’re lying!” he shrieked. With a theatrical howl of outrage, he ripped the multimillion-dollar timepiece off his wrist and hurled it violently onto the bluestone patio floor. Not stopping there, he stomped his heavy designer boot down onto the crystal face, crushing the intricate gears beneath his heel. “It’s mine! How dare you accuse me of renting things out! Look at it—it’s destroyed! Are you happy now? Does that prove it’s mine?!” A collective intake of breath echoed across the terrace. Nobody dared to breathe. Millions of dollars worth of Swiss horology, pulverized into dust in an adolescent temper tantrum. I rested my chin on my hand, looking down at the mangled wreckage with a slow, amused smirk. “Must have felt great taking your anger out on it, Austin. Now tell me—how exactly do you plan on explaining that to my father?” Austin froze. The adrenaline drained from his limbs so violently that his knees gave out. As he tried to stumble backward, he lost his footing on the slick stones and crashed hard onto his side. His palm caught the jagged shards of sapphire crystal. Blood welled up instantly, pooling onto the pavement. “Logan…” he gasped, looking up at me like a wounded puppy, tears streaming down his face. “Are you satisfied now?” Nicole dropped to her knees beside him. With an expression of profound distress I had never once seen her direct toward me, she cradled his bleeding hand. She ripped a linen napkin to wrap the wound, her jaw clenched tight as she helped him to his feet. “We’re going to the hospital,” she snapped, guiding Austin toward the elevator. Seeing me remain firmly in my seat, she whirled on me, her eyes flashing with fury. “Logan! Austin is your brother! He’s your family! How could you push him like this?” She adjusted her grip on Austin’s waist, glaring at me with disgust. “You represent the Whitmore name now. I am doing this to salvage whatever dignity we have left! I’m calling my father tomorrow, and you better spend tonight thinking about how to apologize!” 3 I didn’t rush. By the time I leisurely walked down to the valet, Nicole was already helping Austin into the passenger seat of her Porsche. She didn’t even look in my direction before slamming her foot on the gas and speeding into the city traffic. I spent the next two hours strolling through Bergdorf Goodman, picking up a tailored overcoat, and having a quiet espresso before heading back to the Tribeca penthouse my parents had bought for Nicole and me as a wedding gift. The moment I unlocked the front door, I saw Austin. He was sprawled out on the ivory cashmere sofa, wrapped in a plush throw, sipping chamomile tea with his bandaged hand resting delicately on a velvet pillow. Hearing my footsteps, he pressed two fingers against his temple and let out a fragile sigh. “Logan… Nicole insisted I stay here for a few days while my hand heals. You don’t mind, do you?” I tossed my keys onto the marble console. “I thought you had a strict ten o’clock curfew, Austin. What happened to the saintly boy raised with iron discipline?” Nicole’s sharp voice cut in from the open kitchen. “Logan! Stop with the passive-aggressive bullshit! If you hadn’t provoked him, his hand wouldn’t be shredded!” She walked over, holding an ice pack, and glared at me like I was vermin. “He’s staying here until the stitches come out. You caused this, so you’re going to be the one catering to him.” I stared at her, genuinely amused. She wanted me—Arthur Mercer’s only biological heir—to act as a butler to the chauffeur’s son in my own home. I picked my keys back up. “Got it. I won’t crowd your love nest. I’m going to stay with my parents.” “Logan!” Nicole sputtered, caught off guard. Austin weakly shifted on the sofa, looking up with martyred exhaustion. “Nicole, don’t. It’s fine. It’s not a big deal… I don’t need Logan to apologize. Nicole is an incredible woman, Logan. I just wish you knew how lucky you are to have her.” A flicker of softness crossed Nicole’s eyes—a tender, protective gaze she had never once offered me in all our weeks of marriage. She rested a hand on Austin’s uninjured shoulder and called out toward the hallway: “Maria! Go prepare the guest suite on the second floor. Get Mr. Price whatever he needs.” Then she rounded on me, crossing her arms. “You stand right there. Do not leave this apartment. We are going to settle this right now.” I couldn’t help it; I laughed out loud. “Oh, I’ll wait. Let’s see who’s settling what with whom. Since you’re so madly in love with my driver’s son, I’ll make sure my parents give you two their blessing.” Austin’s frail posture shattered. He scrambled up from the cushions, his face flushed with righteous panic. “Logan, I know you’re angry, but everything I did was because I consider you my brother! Even if you don’t appreciate it, you don’t get to slander us like this…” If I hadn’t lived through his game once before, the sheer conviction in his voice might have actually convinced me. I looked at Nicole, who was physically shielding Austin with her body. “You called her an incredible woman, Austin?” I tilted my head, smiling. “She’s practically in your lap right now. That makes her an incredible woman? Or does a woman only become a gold-digger after she sleeps with you, like the other twenty?” “Logan Mercer!” Nicole shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at me. “Austin showed me the text threads on the way to urgent care! He never touched any of your exes! He exchanged a few polite messages, realized they were money-hungry opportunists, and warned you out of the goodness of his heart!” She sneered, her lip curling in revulsion. “And frankly, twenty exes? What kind of desperate, sleazy mess are you?” Austin chimed in, his voice small and pathetic. “Nicole, please don’t be too hard on him. It was my fault for meddling.” Nicole patted his arm soothingly before turning her venom back on me. “He’s just an adopted stray clinging to your family’s coattails, Austin. He doesn’t have an ounce of class in his blood. The Mercer family must think very little of the Whitmores to pawn off an unprincipled piece of trash like him on me.” I smiled. There it was. Girlfriend number twenty-one, thoroughly tested and approved by Austin Price. For the first time in my life, I felt genuine gratitude toward him. I sat down on the leather armchair, crossing one leg over the other. “So what you’re saying is… you want a divorce?” The room went dead silent. Both Nicole and Austin froze. Austin had always operated in the shadows, wrecking my private romances with whispers and lies; he never had the spine to touch an eight-figure corporate alliance. Nicole was the first to recover. Her chin snapped up, her tone icy. “At least you have some self-awareness. The title of Nicole Whitmore’s husband was never meant for a promiscuous fraud like you. Pack your bags and get the hell out of my sight.” “Over my dead body!” A thunderous voice cracked across the foyer.
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