The Don’s Fake Poverty

Back in my cheap apartment, I yanked the fridge open.

The $5.90 strawberry cake sat on the top shelf. The cheap frosting was melting.

I stood in line for twenty minutes after my shift to get it. I stared at it for three seconds. Yesterday, I would never dare to waste it.

Today, I threw the whole box into the trash can.

Three years. Three whole years.

I dug through discount bins for bruised veggies. I begged the butcher for cheap offcuts. All so Killian could eat a little better.

He came home every day in second-hand coveralls, reeking of motor oil. He'd sigh and tell me his boss cut his pay again.

I would twist my $50 tarnished wedding ring, kiss his cheek, and say, "You worked so hard today, honey."

Out of pure love for him, I worked three grueling part-time jobs. Even in tonight's blizzard, I rode my bike through the freezing wind to deliver food.

I just wanted to save enough for a tiny Brooklyn condo.

And him?

He even let another woman judge me like trash right outside a luxury hotel.

What’s next?

Wait for his so-called “test” to end, then slap the title of Donna on me like throwing a bone to a stray dog?

Tears burned my eyes, but I forced them back.

Why cry for a liar?

I marched into the bedroom and kicked the dusty toolbox under the bed. Wrenches, screwdrivers, oily rags. They were all just props.

I ran my fingers along the bottom of the metal box. I hit a ridge. A hidden compartment.

I held my breath and pried the metal plate open.

I already knew the truth.

But seeing that black card lying quietly inside, my breath still caught in my throat.

An Amex Centurion Black Card. No spending limit. Less than one percent of the world has one.

I pinched the card. My fingertips trembled.

He was a billionaire.

Every penny I scraped together for three years was a joke to him. A hundred of my cheap cakes wouldn't even buy him one sip of liquor in his real world.

I slid the black card back into the dark. Exactly where I found it.

I crawled into bed and cried. I prayed to wake up from this nightmare.

At dawn, the front door clicked.

Killian walked in. I knew that smell too well. Cheap motor oil.

But beneath it, there was something else.

Tom Ford Oud Wood. I smelled it at a mall counter once. One bottle cost more than our monthly grocery budget.

He played his part flawlessly.

"Aria, you're up?" He smiled, walking into the kitchen with a beige paper bag. "Brought you a surprise."

I walked out in my pajamas, pulling my old, pilled robe tight.

He pulled a pastry from the bag and handed it to me.

A white truffle croissant. I saw that gold foil stamp on Instagram once. An exclusive Manhattan bakery. Five hundred bucks a piece.

"Eat up, baby. It's warm." His voice was so soft.

I took it and took a small bite. The rich butter coated my tongue.

"Must be expensive, right?" I asked flatly, staring right into his eyes. "I think I know that logo."

His fingers twitched.

Then he scratched his head and gave me his signature goofy smile. "My boss had leftovers from a fancy client dinner. It was a waste to throw it out. I wanted you to try it."

"Your boss is so generous," I said quietly.

"Yeah, he looks out for me." Killian ruffled my hair, avoiding my gaze. "Aria, just two more years. We'll buy our dream house."

I smiled. I didn't say a word.

Yesterday, I would have cried tears of joy. Today, the cream in my mouth tasted like ash.

His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket.

He pulled it out, sighed, and kissed my forehead. "It's the boss. Needs me back at the shop for an emergency. Be a good girl, I'll be home late."

He didn't know I saw the screen. For one split second, the name flashed.

Chloe.

The moment the door shut, I grabbed my phone and searched Instagram.

She was the first result. A top Vogue model. Her pinned post was a picture of two hands intertwined.

The caption stopped my heart.

"My sweet Kil got me another ruby necklace. Fourth one this month! What do I do with a man so obsessed with me?"