The Cost of Every Cut

Summary

I was born with a silver-plated heart and a radar for net worth.

My philosophy was simple: a man’s charm was directly proportional to the number of zeros in his bank account.

Unfortunately, I was a terrible con artist.

I tried to play the part of a Manhattan socialite while wearing Temu-tier knock-offs, and I once tried to reel in a tech heir only to forget to turn off my location tags on a post from a dive bar in Brooklyn.

After three years of "climbing," I was so broke I was skipping meals to pay for my hair extensions.