"Save it," she cut him off, her voice like shards of glass. She strode forward and threw the crumpled printout. It fluttered to the polished concrete floor between them, his other self staring up. "Was it a game? A billionaire's bored fantasy? 'Let's play pauper and see who loves me for me'? Did you get a good laugh, watching me struggle? Worrying about my dad? Fretting over loan payments while you sat on a throne of money, pulling strings?"
Each word was a lash. Marcus flinched, absorbing the blows without defense. "No. God, no. It was never a game. I was dying in this life, Chloe. I was a shell. Everyone saw the money, the power. No one saw me. I met you, and for the first time in a decade, I… I came alive." His voice broke on the last word, raw and stripped.
"That doesn't make it okay!" she shouted, the sound echoing in the sterile space. "You took my choice away! Every confidence I shared, every vulnerability—they were given to a ghost. You lied about everything. You let me trust you! And when things got hard, you solved them like a god from a machine, thinking your money was the answer. The answer was honesty, Marcus. And you couldn't give me that."
He had no rebuttal. She was right, devastatingly so. "You thought you were finding something real down there with me," she said, her anger giving way to a profound, weary sorrow as she looked around the magnificent, empty prison. "But I was the one living a real life. You were just a tourist."
The final word hung in the air, the ultimate condemnation. She turned on her heel, heading back to the elevator. "Goodbye, Marcus Thorne."
He didn't try to stop her. Her words had carved him hollow. He stood there for hours, staring at the city he owned, the accusation echoing endlessly: You were just a tourist.