I dated a guy for a year and ended up financially free. Why? Because my boyfriend was a rich heir with zero brain cells and a wandering eye. Every time I caught him cheating, he wired me a hundred grand. What could I do? Naturally, I chose to forgive him. That is, until I overheard him trash-talking me to his friends: "Chloe is just a gold digger. Pay her enough, and she’ll do anything." Oh really? I decided to take the money and run. But he wouldn’t let go—crying, screaming, threatening to end it all. Eventually, the drama reached the ears of his ice-cold older brother. The brother cornered me at my apartment door. The Iceberg spoke: "My brother’s actually broke. You should try digging for gold with me instead." 1 When Julian was caught hooking up with a D-list celebrity in his car, I was busy scouring the banquet hall for non-alcoholic wipes to clean my bag. That bag was last month’s apology gift—the price for catching him at a hotel with an Instagram model. He’d thrown in a hundred thousand dollars as "hush money" to keep me from snitching to his stiff, emotionless older brother. But tonight, at this so-called high-society gala, some klutz had spilled red wine all over it. The stain was aggressively soaking into the leather. My heart was bleeding. I wasn’t planning to keep it. I was going to wear it once for Julian to see, then flip it on a resale site for at least thirty grand. Now, it looked like a total loss. Coming to this stuffy event with him was just bad luck. "Cleaning up the spoils of war, Miss Evans?" A sleazy whistle came from behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was Julian’s posse—a group of trust-fund idiots with flat personalities. I ignored them. But high-society brats can’t stand being ignored. One of them stepped right into my personal space. He tapped his phone screen and played a voice note sent to Julian: "Your girlfriend is looking for you." Then, with a smug grin, he played Julian’s reply. His voice was floaty, trembling with a weird mix of intoxication and exertion. "Don't worry about her... ungh... Chloe is the easiest kind of gold digger... pay her enough and she’d lick my boots." The sticky sound of heavy breathing filled the silence. Someone patted my shoulder. "Check the parking garage. Your boy Julian isn't known for his stamina. He’ll be done in a minute." I knew the drill. It was payday. Everyone looked down on Julian, and the sad part was, he never gave them a reason not to. By the time I took the elevator down—maybe three minutes—he was already in his car, panting and pulling up his pants. I snapped a photo. Even through the window, I could see Julian’s flushed cheeks and damp hair. The D-list celebrity didn't look tired at all, just acting the part of "post-coital bliss." She looked familiar—famous for her elven looks and corpse-like acting skills. I’d seen them flirting earlier. Who knew he couldn't even wait until the gala ended? I knocked on the glass. Julian jumped. He looked sober instantly, his handsome, youthful face twisting into illogical shock. I don’t know why he was surprised; did he think the car windows were magical cloaks of invisibility? "Chloe? What are you doing here?" "Do I need to explain?" I waved my phone, showing him the fresh photo. Julian scrambled out of the car, grabbing my wrist. His palm was clammy—sweat, or something worse. "Chloe, listen to me." I nodded, signaling I was listening, but I yanked my hand away. He didn't say anything else. After a long silence, he just choked out, "I had too much to drink." The silence lasted so long that the starlet had time to dress, fix her makeup, and lean against the car door with a smirk, arms crossed. Julian, speechless and panicked, fumbled with his phone. "Chloe, don't be mad. I'll wire you money. Go buy some bags, jewelry, or take a trip..." Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming exhaustion. I calculated the balance in my bank account. Yeah. It was time to be tired of this. 2 To be fair, Julian had saved me once. When I met him, I was working at a car wash. To avoid the constant sexual harassment from my male coworkers, I started dressing hideously on day two. I even bought a pair of ugly, thick-rimmed glasses. But I hadn't mentioned this: I am objectively beautiful. And specifically poor. A beautiful girl with no money is like a child holding a gold bar in a busy market—you can hide, but you can’t escape the covetous eyes. The day Julian showed up, the guys had "accidentally" sprayed me with the high-pressure hose. I looked like a drowned rat. My t-shirt was soaked under my waterproof apron, clinging to my bra. They laughed and told me to just take it off. I stood there, freezing, refusing to move. One of them got close and pinched my cheek. "So you aren't wearing makeup. You really are that pale. Soft, too." I was mentally calculating if my remaining $60 could cover the damages if I punched them. That’s when Julian honked. His car was finished, parked nearby. I didn't know how long he’d been sitting there or how much he’d seen. His voice was impatient. "Who washed this? The interior is still damp." The guys shoved me forward. "Sorry, sir. The new girl is clumsy. We'll have her fix it right up for you." I shook the water off my clothes. Standing by his door, I hesitated. Should I change first? I didn't want to ruin his leather seats. Julian chuckled softly, leaning down toward me. "You shake off water like a puppy." I froze, unsure if he was mocking me or being kind. Then, his smile faded. He reached into the back seat and handed me a shopping bag. It was a brand I didn't recognize, clothes still with tags. "Go change. Those guys are pricks. They did that on purpose." When I hesitated, he scratched his head, looking embarrassed. "Just broke up with my girlfriend. Never got to give her these. Don't worry, I'm not a creep." By the time I changed and came back out, Julian was gone. I snuck a look at the customer log to find his number. It took me until the next day to work up the courage to text him. I thanked him for standing up for me and told him I'd washed and sanitized the clothes. If he didn't mind, I could return them. Originally, to show some backbone, I wanted to buy them from him. But after Googling the brand and realizing the price was my annual salary, I decided returning them was the wiser option. Julian replied quickly, asking to meet at an overpriced coffee shop near the university. We met a few times after that. I learned—or confirmed—that his family was filthy rich. He was born into love and money, a genetic lottery winner with a trust fund and model looks. In the first month, he got me a job as a library assistant at the university. No dirty jokes, just stressed students with dark circles under their eyes. By month three, we were officially dating. I drove Julian’s new sports car back to the car wash, purely out of spite. I bossed around the guys who used to harass me. I thought it would feel amazing. Okay, it felt a little amazing. But the thrill faded fast. The petty satisfaction was replaced by emptiness when I saw the speculation in their eyes. I was a fox borrowing the tiger’s might, sitting in someone else’s car, with nowhere to go. Was shallow revenge really all I wanted? 3 After six months with Julian, I told him I wanted to study. My parents were village delinquents who never legally married. When I was five, they left for the city to work, taking my clever little brother and the family dog. My dad said the city was dangerous, full of cars that could crush a person flat. So, they left me in the village to "enjoy life." I grew up wild, eating scraps from neighbors because I was pretty and had a sweet mouth. When I was deciding between a factory job or a vocational school, the village matchmaker tried to sell me off. She said the family was "honest." Turned out, the groom drooled for eight hours a day. That night, I packed a bag and ran to the city. Then I met Julian. Someone like Julian, who had been forced into elite schools since birth, couldn't understand why anyone would beg to study. Just like he couldn't understand how eight people could live in a ten-square-meter room the first time he visited my dorm. But I was grateful for his naive privilege. Because our worlds were so different, I was a novelty to him. Julian thought my desire to learn was "cute." He looked into it and told me to take the IELTS exam first. He promised that once I passed the language requirement, he’d hire an agency to get me into a school abroad. I was ecstatic. I started teaching myself. My foundation was weak, but I was smart and desperate. I memorized vocabulary whenever I wasn't with Julian. Julian got tired of watching me struggle with flashcards, so he paid for a two-month enclosed IELTS boot camp. When I first entered the camp, Julian called me fifty times a day, reporting his schedule like a loyal puppy. He whispered sweet nothings, and at nineteen, I blushed and whispered them back. My brain was full of vocabulary and grammar, but my heart was full of hope for our future. I thought: Julian is highly educated. A high school dropout doesn't match him. Even if I’ll never have his money, I can match his education. Once I get a degree and a job at a foreign company, I won’t need Julian to be my safety net. But halfway through the month, the calls stopped coming. He got "busy." His schedule became vague. He said he loved me, then disappeared for three days. It was like the hot water in a shared apartment—unreliable because someone else was using it. When I finished the camp two months later, he picked me up looking glowing and refreshed. His left ear was pierced with a row of black studs, the skin around them red and inflamed. I later found out he’d spent that month chasing an edgy girl who loved tattoos and piercings. His love came in intense, weird waves. To get close to her, he’d punched holes in his own body. It was the edgy girl who called me, annoyed by him. "Watch your boyfriend. He’s not loyal." I cried and confronted Julian. Crying was pathetic, but I couldn't stop. The panic of being abandoned swallowed me whole. I was young. It was my first love. I thought I’d met a prince. I thought Julian was my savior. He was gentle, energetic, and worldly. I’d never met anyone like him in my gray little life. He took me to French restaurants where I didn't understand the plating, and just as I felt discouraged, he’d drag me back to his massive penthouse and cook me a comforting, homestyle meal. We washed dishes together. In his 5,000-square-foot apartment, I ironically felt "at home." But after six months, the dream broke. I realized the penthouse wasn't my home, and there was no prince. I broke up with Julian. I moved out and rented a tiny, north-facing room in a shared apartment. Julian, surprisingly, wouldn't let go. He cried, knelt, blocked me at the library, and sent massive bouquets of flowers to my cramped rental every day. After a month of silence from me, Julian started drinking heavily. That’s when his infamous older brother finally came looking for me. 4 "Get back together with Julian." Adrian Pei was the traditional kind of rich—the kind who only spoke in commands. I thought he was insane. "Your brother cheated on me. What right do you have to dictate this relationship?" Adrian leaned back in his leather executive chair, my background check spread open on his desk. His expression was bland, looking at me like I was a tantrum-throwing toddler. "Because of you, my brother is depressed and drinking himself into a stupor. I don't like seeing that." "Then teach your brother some discipline." I got up to leave, but his bodyguards blocked the door. "You want to study, don't you? Do you have the money for that?" Adrian asked coldly. I didn't. But I could work. "I'll pay for your education." I stared at this man—better looking than Julian, but infinitely colder—wondering what his game was. Adrian seemed satisfied by my hesitation. "Treat it like acting. Keep him happy. Stop him from acting suicidal. You’re with him for the money anyway, right? I’ll give you money. He has a three-minute attention span; he's never dated anyone longer than a year. Once he gets bored and wants to break up, just go with the flow." When I stayed silent, Adrian assumed I was weighing the pros and cons. He added, "Don't worry, he won't be stuck on you forever. I'll be introducing him to girls from appropriate families soon." Appropriate families. The words floated down and settled on my head like lead. Adrian was eight years older than Julian. Their father died young, so Adrian took over the family empire early, accustomed to playing the dictatorial patriarch. He had always known about me but watched from above like a god—treating our relationship like a child playing house with a gold digger. The humiliation was sudden and sharp. I wanted to scream. I wasn't in it for the money. Julian had money, but it was Adrian’s money. The family’s money. Julian was a nice enough trust fund baby, but mostly he spent money on himself. The biggest thing he spent on me was that boot camp. Rich people jingling their coin purses is just low-cost mating behavior. Julian, despite his youth, knew that well. I stiffened my neck, mimicking Adrian's arrogance. I looked him up and down with the same rudeness he showed me. Then I squeezed out a very adult smile. "How much are you paying?"
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