Ballerina’s Confession：Seduced by My Twin Coaches - Chapter 6: Chapter 6
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I was completely out of my depth when it came to relationships—total rookie status.
But my best friend Sophia Evans? She operated on a whole other level. Born into Manhattan royalty with an international school pedigree, she'd been navigating high society since she could walk. While I was scraping by on student loans in my parents' crumbling old house, Sophia had her pick of elite suitors from every corner of the globe.
The only reason a Park Avenue princess like her bothered with me? We shared more than just a name—we were both Isabella Laurent, down to the exact spelling and birthday. It was creepy enough to bond over, I guess.
Sophia never missed an opportunity to school me:
"That six-foot-two Wall Street type is into you? Please. The Royal Ballet Academy pumps out prettier girls than Starbucks does lattes."
"Wake up, Bella. This has scam written all over it—classic romance con."
"Mark my words—by month's end he'll have some sob story about a failed wire transfer. They always go for the money play."
Money.
The word lodged in my throat like bad sushi. I'd seen enough true crime docs to know even PhDs got taken for six figures. And while my dingy Brooklyn row house wasn't much, it was all I had left.
The worst part? When Warren confessed his feelings last week, I'd actually considered offering him a loan. Thank God Sophia didn't know that.
So I waited. Watched. If Warren so much as breathed the word "loan," I'd ghost him faster than a Tinder date with mommy issues.
For eight weeks, Warren spoiled me rotten—Michelin-star dinners, Bergdorf shopping sprees, the works. Every time I reached for my wallet, he'd wave me off like I'd insulted his ancestors. Not a single mention of money.
I started letting my guard down.
Then the call came.
"Isabella... I messed up. The investment tanked—"
My stomach dropped. Here it comes. I hit speakerphone so Sophia could witness my humiliation live.
"—three hundred grand gone. Michael's going to skin me alive..." Warren's voice cracked.
Sophia silently formed the word with her manicured lips: Predator.
"Isabella, I need to ask—"
Click.
Blocked. Deleted. Two months of my life wasted on some grifter's fantasy.
Sophia's laughter cut like broken crystal. "God, you're pathetic. Was the dick really that good? Without me, you'd be wiring your life savings to some Nigerian prince right now."
She flicked her blonde hair. "Stick to your lane, country mouse. Maybe you'll bag some hedge fund's chauffeur if you're lucky."
The words burned, but what could I say? In our twisted friendship, I was the charity case. I swallowed the insult like cheap wine and crawled into bed.
Game over—or so I thought. Until Monday morning, when Warren materialized at the school gates looking like hell.
But my best friend Sophia Evans? She operated on a whole other level. Born into Manhattan royalty with an international school pedigree, she'd been navigating high society since she could walk. While I was scraping by on student loans in my parents' crumbling old house, Sophia had her pick of elite suitors from every corner of the globe.
The only reason a Park Avenue princess like her bothered with me? We shared more than just a name—we were both Isabella Laurent, down to the exact spelling and birthday. It was creepy enough to bond over, I guess.
Sophia never missed an opportunity to school me:
"That six-foot-two Wall Street type is into you? Please. The Royal Ballet Academy pumps out prettier girls than Starbucks does lattes."
"Wake up, Bella. This has scam written all over it—classic romance con."
"Mark my words—by month's end he'll have some sob story about a failed wire transfer. They always go for the money play."
Money.
The word lodged in my throat like bad sushi. I'd seen enough true crime docs to know even PhDs got taken for six figures. And while my dingy Brooklyn row house wasn't much, it was all I had left.
The worst part? When Warren confessed his feelings last week, I'd actually considered offering him a loan. Thank God Sophia didn't know that.
So I waited. Watched. If Warren so much as breathed the word "loan," I'd ghost him faster than a Tinder date with mommy issues.
For eight weeks, Warren spoiled me rotten—Michelin-star dinners, Bergdorf shopping sprees, the works. Every time I reached for my wallet, he'd wave me off like I'd insulted his ancestors. Not a single mention of money.
I started letting my guard down.
Then the call came.
"Isabella... I messed up. The investment tanked—"
My stomach dropped. Here it comes. I hit speakerphone so Sophia could witness my humiliation live.
"—three hundred grand gone. Michael's going to skin me alive..." Warren's voice cracked.
Sophia silently formed the word with her manicured lips: Predator.
"Isabella, I need to ask—"
Click.
Blocked. Deleted. Two months of my life wasted on some grifter's fantasy.
Sophia's laughter cut like broken crystal. "God, you're pathetic. Was the dick really that good? Without me, you'd be wiring your life savings to some Nigerian prince right now."
She flicked her blonde hair. "Stick to your lane, country mouse. Maybe you'll bag some hedge fund's chauffeur if you're lucky."
The words burned, but what could I say? In our twisted friendship, I was the charity case. I swallowed the insult like cheap wine and crawled into bed.
Game over—or so I thought. Until Monday morning, when Warren materialized at the school gates looking like hell.
End of Ballerina’s Confession：Seduced by My Twin Coaches Chapter 6. Continue reading Chapter 7 or return to Ballerina’s Confession：Seduced by My Twin Coaches book page.