I had spent five years helping Gavin build his empire from the dirt up. I was there when he had nothing, and I was there now, as he finally started to taste the heights of success. That afternoon, I was locked in a heated argument with a parking attendant, my face flushed with humiliation as I fought to save five measly dollars on the fee. Then, Gavin spoke. His voice was casual, almost light, but it hit me like a physical blow. He told me he’d just bought my best friend a three-million-dollar supercar. I froze, the world tilting on its axis. I was sure I had misheard him. I couldn’t find my voice, my throat constricting until it ached. He didn’t give me a second to process it. He pointed at the very spot where we stood and kept going. He told me the car had been parked right here yesterday. He had this look on his face—a sort of dazed, lingering satisfaction—as he described how thrilled she’d been. He told me she was so desperate for him that they’d gone at it seven times, right there in the car, until he ran out of protection and just gave her everything. He even brought up the phone call I’d made yesterday, asking him to come home for dinner. I’d asked him what that high-pitched sound in the background was—I thought I’d heard a cat. He chuckled then. He told me it wasn't a cat. It was my best friend, Lydia, screaming because he was being too rough with her. She sounded like a cat in heat, he said. My voice shook as I asked him the only question that mattered: If he had the money, why… why did he treat me like this? He seemed to have expected the question. A mocking smile touched his lips as he used that old nickname. "Silley Jennifer," he said. He told me it was because my "good friend" was just too expensive to keep. He actually blamed my struggle to save money on her, suggesting that if she were more frugal, I wouldn't have to worry about a few dollars for parking. Then, he looked me up and down with a localized disgust I had never seen before. He told me to stop giving pedicures to those lecherous old men at the strip mall spa. And then, the knockout blow: Lydia was pregnant with his child. Finally, in a tone that suggested it was only natural, he said that since I’d spent so much time getting certifications to serve people, I might as well serve her. ... I was a ghost. I don’t remember the walk home. When I opened the door, the ceiling was leaking again. The grease-caked exhaust fan hummed with a rhythmic, dying screech. The smell of mildew from the bathroom hung heavy in the air. Under the weak yellow glow of the single bulb, I stared at the place I had called home for five years. I was lost. All I could hear was the roar of Gavin’s Maybach as he drove away, leaving me with one final sentence. "Actually, it only took me a year to make it." And Lydia. My best friend. Around that same time, she’d told me she’d finally found "the one." That meant for four years—over fourteen hundred days—my husband and my best friend had been together behind my back. They had watched me live in this damp, dark basement. They had watched me scramble for wilted vegetables at the end of the market day. They had watched me scavenge for recyclables in the trash bins of the neighborhood until dawn. They watched me like I was a fool, handing over every cent I painstakingly saved to "help Gavin with his startup." I had listened to him tell me he’d failed, time and time after time, and I had held him, my heart aching for his struggle. But Gavin was rich. He’d been rich for a long time. And all his money had gone to Lydia. I called him over and over, desperate for an answer. Desperate to ask why. But he was patient; he declined every call. Then, he blocked me. The man who once lost sleep if he missed a single text from me had blocked me without a flicker of hesitation. Less than ten minutes later, he appeared on Lydia’s Instagram. Now that the truth was out, he didn't even bother to hide it. He hadn't even taken off our wedding ring, yet there he was at a high-end auction house. In Lydia’s story, he bid twenty million on a sapphire necklace for her. Only yesterday, he’d pretended to be riddled with guilt because he "didn't have enough" to buy me a cup of coffee. Looking at that silhouette—the man spending a fortune on another woman—my tears finally broke. I sat in the dark and sobled until my chest burned. When Gavin finally came home, he was still wearing the designer suit from the auction. He looked like the golden boy he had been before his family’s business collapsed—untouchable and elite. I traced the frayed sleeve of my worn-out sweater, instinctively hiding my rough, calloused hands behind my back. Gavin set a container of truffles cream soup on the table. "Lydia couldn't finish it. I brought it back so it wouldn't go to waste." He looked at me with pure contempt. "You hate waste, don't you?" I looked at the logo on the bag. It was from The Gilded Cage, my favorite restaurant since I was a girl. When we first started dating, Gavin took me there all the time. Later, when we were struggling, I would cry in bed because I missed the taste of their food so much. Gavin used to hold me and promise, "Jennifer, when we make it, I’ll take you there every day." He’d said it a thousand times, but he never took me. By the time life had ground me down to a nub, I no longer had the energy to dream about a three-hundred-dollar bowl of soup. And now he had brought it home. The leftovers of his mistress. The scraps of my best friend. I grabbed the vase off the table and hurled it at him. It shattered into a thousand pieces. But even as the shards flew, my heart twinged. For a split second, I felt a pang of regret for breaking a three-dollar vase. For five years, that thought had dominated my life. A chipped bowl. A few extra minutes in a hot shower. The cost of medicine when I had a fever and tried to "tough it out." I realized then that I was traumatized by poverty. For Gavin, for survival, I had turned myself into a bitter, penny-pinching shrew. I started to laugh, a wild, jagged sound. But the tears wouldn't stop. I looked into Gavin’s eyes and asked him again. "Why?" He just stepped back toward the door, as if being in this dilapidated home was beneath him. He studied me, then smiled. "You mean, why did I keep it from you?" He tilted his head, his tone conversational. "No real reason. I just thought that when you were killing yourself to save money for me, you loved me the most. If we had the money, you’d go back to being that spoiled little princess. You wouldn't revolve around me anymore." "Lydia’s different," he continued. "She didn't grow up like you. She treats me like her entire world." The blood in my veins turned to ice. Outside, the rain began to pour, and the leak in the ceiling worsened. Suddenly, a phantom pain flared in my leg. I clutched the stump of my missing limb. I had become an expert at managing the pain over the years, but now, it felt like Gavin’s words were needles driven into my bone, vibrating through my soul. The cheap, poorly made prosthetic had rubbed my skin raw and bloody. I looked at the blood on my palms, and for a moment, the world blurred. I was back three years ago. I had gone out at 2:00 AM to deliver food for a thirty-dollar tip. On the way back, a truck had crushed my leg. When the doctor said they had to amputate, Gavin and Lydia had held my blood-stained body and wept like children. "Jennifer, you’ll never dance again," they had sobbed. I had been the top student at the National Dance Academy. My life was over. And all that time, Gavin was already rich. He had watched me struggle in poverty, watched me lose a leg for the sake of a few dollars. My "best friend" had cried until she couldn't breathe in the hallway, only to go around the corner and sleep with my husband. Afterward, she’d walk into my hospital room with swollen lips, pretending to comfort me while bragging about how "clingy" Gavin was being. I had been such a fool. I didn't see the glances they exchanged. I didn't see the electricity between them. I dug my nails into the scabs on my leg, unaware of the pain. Gavin sighed, picked me up, and carried me into the elevator. The elevator went to the penthouse. It was a different world. A sprawling, sun-drenched living room. A terrace filled with the scent of fresh flowers. Exquisite decor, high-end smart tech. It was everything I had ever dreamed of for us. Gavin dropped me on the bed. "I bought this for Lydia to use when she’s tired from shopping. She’s not here often. You stay here for now." His phone rang, and he hurried to the balcony. I stared at his back, doing the math in my head. The same man. He let me live in a five-hundred-dollar basement while giving Lydia a ten-million-dollar penthouse as a "resting spot." While I fought for every penny at the bottom of the world, they were up here with wine and flowers, living the dream. Gavin lit a cigar, a tender smile on his face as he looked at the woman on his screen. I tried to stand up, fell, and scrambled across the floor like an animal. He paused, saw me, and looked away as if I were invisible. He kept laughing at whatever she was saying. Ten minutes and five "goodbyes" later, he hung up and walked back in. He saw the blood on the floor and frowned. "Lydia’s a clean freak." Then he saw my mangled, bloody stump. He looked away. "Whatever. I’ll have the maid clean it." He hauled me up. Then, he looked at his blood-stained sleeve, peeled off his jacket, and tossed it into the trash. My eyes followed the jacket. It was a custom Italian suit. At least ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand. How many years of groceries was that? Gavin noticed my expression and let out a cold laugh. "Jennifer, don't blame me for keeping it a secret. Look at you. You don't fit in my world anymore. This circle wouldn't accept a wife who gives pedicures for a living." I laughed too, a dry, hollow sound. "So it’s only natural that you’d have me—your 'unpresentable' wife—wait on your pregnant mistress?" His face hardened. "Jennifer, she’s pregnant." I looked down. "Pregnant?" I whispered. "I was pregnant once, too." Four years ago. A crucial dinner for Gavin’s business. He was allergic to alcohol but had to drink. I was so worried about him that I stepped in and took his drinks for him. I drank all night, vomiting between rounds. By morning, he was passed out at home. I had taken our last few dollars and staggered to a clinic for what I thought was stomach pain. The doctor told me it wasn't a stomach ache. It was a miscarriage. I had called Gavin, crying, only to hear him sigh and say, "I’m sorry, Jennifer. The investor still said no." I had swallowed my tears and comforted him. "It’s okay. I believe in you." Now I knew. That night, he did get the investment. And the person he shared the victory with wasn't me. A crack of thunder drowned out my voice. Gavin leaned in. "What did you say?" But he didn't wait for an answer. Something occurred to him, and he grabbed his keys. "Lydia’s terrified of thunderstorms. I have to go to her." I watched him go without a backward glance. I let out a choked laugh. Lydia wasn't the only one afraid of thunder. I used to be terrified of it. Back then, Gavin would stay by my side all night. He used to check the weather reports weeks in advance so he could fly me to a sunny island to avoid the storms. But now, he was racing to be with someone else. He stopped at the door and turned back with a warning. "Having you take care of Lydia was my idea. She doesn't know I’ve come clean to you. She’s emotionally unstable because of the pregnancy, so just play along. I’ll pay you ten times your usual rate." Then, he was gone. Three minutes later, a text from Lydia popped up. “Jennifer, Gavin told me you were fighting with someone over five dollars for parking again? I told you, I’m doing well now. You helped me so much when we were kids. Why won’t you let me help you for once?” I stared at her "caring" words. Her chat background was an old, grainy photo of us as teenagers. I remembered how poor Lydia’s family had been. My mom used to prepare an extra set of everything for her—clothes, school supplies. When she couldn't afford tuition, I gave her all my savings. When she failed her art school auditions, I spent every spare moment of my freshman year practicing with her. When she was eighteen and her gambling-addicted father tried to sell her off, I begged my parents for fifteen thousand dollars to buy her freedom. I had treated her like a sister. I never would have imagined that all that love would be traded for a knife in the back. I didn't reply. I forced myself up. I limped through the penthouse and found the deeds to three properties in Lydia’s name. I found 121 photos of her and Gavin together. Eighteen of them were wedding photos. I was still waiting for a wedding that would never come. I found 78 receipts for luxury goods. 43 designer bags. Millions of dollars—enough to buy a dozen high-end prosthetics. And a drawer full of lingerie and protection. Three wrappers were sitting in the trash. I took my cracked phone and photographed every single thing. Then, with a calm I didn't know I possessed, I sent them to Lydia. “How exactly are you helping me? With the money you got from being my husband’s whore?” She didn't reply. But as I expected, Gavin came back. He didn't yell. He didn't curse. He just quietly fitted me with a brand-new prosthetic. I touched it. It was top-of-the-line—thirty thousand dollars. I’d seen it in a window once; to me, it had been an impossible dream. On that same day, Lydia had posted a photo of a thirty-thousand-dollar bag. And I, like an idiot, had been happy for her. Gavin finished his work and handed me a set of divorce papers. "She’s having contractions because of you." His eyes were dark with a simmering rage. I smirked, taking the pen. "Oh? Did I hurt your precious little heart? But which part of what I said wasn't true?" He knit his brows, looking at me with nothing but annoyance. The eyes that used to be full of love were now full of disgust. Even though I was already numb, my heart still stung. Gavin slammed a stack of photos onto the bed. His voice was flat, but every word felt like a slow execution. "Sign the papers. Tomorrow is Lydia’s birthday. I’m proposing to her at the party. As her 'best friend,' I expect you to be there." I looked at the photos. They were of me, stripped bare, from years ago. The memories of that night flooded back, making me feel physically ill. I started to shake. I looked at him, disbelieving. "You said… you said you destroyed these. You swore no one would ever know what happened to me on graduation night." His eyes remained cold. "Don't blame me. You wouldn't play nice." When he brought me to the gala, Lydia dropped her champagne glass and ran to me, tears streaming down her face. "Jennifer, let me explain!" I looked at Gavin, and like a puppet on a string, I spoke. "It’s not your fault. Gavin and I are divorced now. I came to give you my blessing." Lydia beamed. she threw her arms around me in a fake embrace. But in my ear, she whispered with venomous triumph: "I finally won, Jennifer. Do you have any idea how much I hated you? You and your rich parents, handing out charity like I was a stray dog? It was exhausting." "By the way," she hissed, "I was the one who hired those men on graduation night. Gavin was so disgusted by you after that. You have no idea." The blood rushed to my head. I swung my hand and slapped Lydia as hard as I could. The next second, I was shoved to the floor. Lydia screamed, clutching her stomach. "My baby! My baby!" Gavin panicked, scooping her up and calling for the house doctor. Lydia moaned in "pain," looking at me with tearful eyes. "Jennifer, we’re in love. You can hate me, but why would you hurt my baby?" Gavin’s face was like stone. He grabbed my chin. "Jennifer, I gave you a chance. It seems you need a lesson." He signaled to a guard. My heart dropped. I grabbed his hand, begging. "No! Please!" He saw my tears and hesitated for a fraction of a second. But when Lydia let out a louder wail, he turned cold. "You slapped her once. You’ll slap yourself a hundred times as an apology. Otherwise, I can’t guarantee your parents won't see those photos by morning." I turned toward Lydia, numb, and knelt on the floor. The sound of my own hand hitting my face echoed through the ballroom. Guests whispered, asking who I was. Gavin’s response was clipped. "The maid." At his words, the room turned on me. Someone, wanting to suck up to Gavin, poured a glass of wine over my head. Then came the scraps of food, the cake, and finally, lit cigarettes. Gavin watched it all. He didn't move a muscle. When my face was swollen and bleeding, I looked at him. "Is it enough?" He didn't say anything. He signaled for someone to carry me out. But as I was leaving, every screen in the room—and every guest's phone—suddenly chimed. A video started playing. It was me, years ago, screaming and pleading in the dark. “No! Don’t touch me! Please!” The room went silent, then exploded into whispers. People looked at me like I was a freak, a piece of trash. My mother burst through the doors, her face white. "Jennifer… how could you be so reckless? Do you know your father came all this way to see you, only to see that? He’s gone, Jennifer. The shock killed him!" The world snapped into focus. I looked at my mother. "Mom… I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’ll go to him. I’ll make it right." I turned and ran—crawled—toward the roof. When I reached the edge and stepped off, Gavin’s voice screamed from behind me. "No!" He lunged for me, but his hands only caught the expensive prosthetic leg. It slid right off. My old phone, seven years old and cracked, fell at his feet. As it hit the ground, a recording began to play. Lydia’s voice, clear and sharp in the night air: "I was the one who hired those men..."
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