Back From The Dead For A Blank Check

I poured everything into him. As a struggling artist, I lived for Julian, my charming musician. I paid his bills, cooked his food, convinced myself our love was worth more than money. Then the black Escalades came. My Julian, the man I loved, was Julian Vance, a billionaire heir. He didn' t even look at me as his fixer handed me a check for $500,000, calling it a "thank you for your time." My world shattered. I tore the check, screamed my love wasn't for sale. I was a romantic idiot. To keep him, I leaked our story to the tabloids, forcing his family to make him marry me for appearances. The marriage was hell. Julian treated me with open disgust. His monstrous grandfather systematically dismantled my life, isolating me, sabotaging my art, whispering poisons until I questioned my sanity. The final blow: Julian on Page Six, laughing on a yacht with "his longtime companion," Serena. My "love story" was a brutal nightmare, my grand romance a calculated humiliation. The pain of betrayal, the sheer injustice, choked me. How could something so pure turn so monstrously toxic? I was a pawn. That night, in our cold, empty penthouse, I ended my life. But then, I woke up. Back in my tiny Brooklyn apartment. The day before I met Julian for the "first" time. This time, I knew the script. And this time, I wasn't here for love. I was here to collect.