Playing Girlfriend and Getting Paid

I was Ansel Whitmore's pathetic lapdog. New York's golden boy, and I was just his practice. "Fall for her? She's convenient," he laughed. But his mother paid me three million to disappear. I faked my death and ran. Three years later, a hand covered my eyes in a car. A familiar voice purred: "If I'd held you tight back then, you never would've run away, would you?"