Yet Derek bragged on social media: "My Chelsea is such a tough girl. So straightforward and cute!"
Then came the rumor that someone saw Chelsea urinating standing up.
Derek's defense was immediate and delusional: "It's a European lifestyle trend. You peasants wouldn't understand. Chelsea is forward-thinking!"
Reading the classmates' mocking reposts, I laughed until my ribs ached.
Desperate to prove he didn't need the Finch fortune, Derek dragged his crippled body to deliver takeout. But with weak hands and a lame leg, he was fired within two days after a barrage of complaints.
Finally, Chelsea "couldn't bear to watch" and produced a stack of cash.
"Derek, this is the dowry I saved. It's not much, but it's enough to start a small business."
Derek nearly fell to his knees. He told anyone who would listen, "See? This is true love! Valerie Fox is just a gold digger who abandoned me, but Chelsea is my salvation!"
People looked at him like he was deranged.
By then, I was already assisting on high-profile investigations. He was a disowned cripple; I was a rising forensic consultant. Worlds apart.
Through my police connections, I quickly realized the source of Chelsea's "dowry." It wasn't savings. It was loot.
A string of burglaries had plagued their neighborhood—electric scooters, jewelry, cash. The police had opened files but lacked hard evidence.
I didn't. Cross-referencing the timeline with surveillance footage, I spotted a familiar silhouette.
Chelsea.
