A Handbag and a Heart

Grandma was suddenly hospitalized with a heart attack.

I was too busy with work to handle it myself, so I entrusted my mute boyfriend, Brad Landon, to take care of it.

I handed him the bank card with the 10,000 dollars I'd saved and asked him to pay the hospital fees.

But I never expected to see him, just hours later, walking into a private room at the bar where I worked part-time. He had his arm around another woman.

My pupils trembled violently.

This couldn't be right.

Brad was shy and introverted, the type who avoided bars altogether, let alone showed up with a woman in his arms.

Whenever I mentioned bars in the past, he would use sign language to say, "Places like that are for bad people."

In fact, I'd kept my part-time job here a secret from him.

Yet there he was, dressed in an expensive suit, a Patek Philippe watch worth millions on his wrist.

This was the same man who had no job and relied entirely on me, living with me in a cramped 30-square-meter apartment.

I shook my head, convinced I'd mistaken him for someone else.

But just as I finished serving drinks and was about to leave, I overheard laughter from the private room.

"I thought you weren't coming tonight, Brad. What happened? Did your girlfriend go out to make money for you again?"

"Man, you're really something. Even after being kicked out of the family, you still found yourself a sucker like that."

"Jealous? You could never pull this off. With Brad's looks, women practically throw money at him."

The tray in my hand shook uncontrollably. My body stiffened in shock, and my face went pale beneath my mask.

I stood frozen in the corner, my eyes fixed on Brad.

At that moment, all doubts vanished. He was, without question, my boyfriend of three years.

And then, to my utter disbelief, he spoke.

"You don't get it," he said, his voice smooth and unhurried. "As long as the cost of dating stays lower than keeping a mistress, it's worth the trouble."

He held a cigarette between his fingers, the curling smoke only enhancing his polished appearance.

"Besides," he continued, "if I pretend to be disabled, I get food, shelter, and woman for free. No expenses at all."

He chuckled, exhaling a plume of smoke. "And Wendy's as pretty as a goddess. Can your girlfriends compare?"

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. My heart shattered into a million pieces.

This man—my boyfriend of three years—wasn't mute.

And worse, he spoke about me with such disdain, as if I were nothing more than a gullible fool desperate to support him.

The room spun. I had to lean against the wall just to stay upright.

No one noticed my trembling, my mask hiding the tears threatening to spill over.

One of the men laughed. "I heard Wendy's figure is incredible. I've never been with a girl like that. If you're done with her, Brad, can I have a go?"

Brad's expression darkened. He kicked the man. "Have some self-respect. I'm not done with her yet."

"Three years, and you're still not tired of her? Don't tell me you actually love her!"

He paused, flicking the ash from his cigarette. Half of his face was hidden in shadow, his emotions unreadable. "Love her? Don't be ridiculous. I just don't marry women I don't love."

Another man laughed slyly. "Come on, Brad. You're the heir to the city's wealthiest family. You should've agreed to that arranged marriage ages ago."

"Yeah," someone else chimed in. "It's just an engagement, not a real marriage. Even if you get married, so what? My wife's eight months pregnant, and I still fool around."

Brad sneered. "Those women outside are filthy. Wendy might come from a poor background, but at least she was a virgin."

I laughed bitterly to myself. How despicable could a person be? How convincing could they act?

I'd worked three jobs, living on one meal a day, to support my so-called disabled boyfriend.

He wasn't poor, wasn't mute, and was, in fact, the heir to an empire.

The man who had seemed so devoted to me secretly despised me.

A sharp pain twisted in my stomach. The taste of iron rose in my throat. I was so enraged I coughed up blood.

Someone in the room suddenly asked, "Hey, Brad, you're not still hung up on Kathy Hudgens, are you? The one who went abroad?"

"Come to think of it, Wendy does look a little like her," another added.

"No way, Brad, I thought you were just playing the poor boy act, but you're actually into this whole substitute game."

The first man chuckled. "Back during the earthquake, Brad thought Kathy was buried under the rubble. He dug through the dirt with his bare hands like a madman."