My boyfriend, Austin, always said he despised the wealthy. He reserved a special kind of venom for the trust-fund heiresses who thought they could buy their way through life. Until the night he took a premium designated-driver shift, and a girl in a Porsche threw up all over his jacket. Austin dragged her out of the vehicle and onto the wet pavement of the Chicago street. "You think having a little money makes you special?" he sneered, loud enough for passersby to hear. "Women like you are pathetic. Don't waste my time." The girl, Charlotte, was so furious she threatened to make sure he’d never find work in this city again. Terrified of what she might do to us, I bowed and apologized repeatedly, handing over every cent of our rent money to cover her dry-cleaning and car-detailing bills. On the long walk back to our cramped apartment, Austin wrapped his arms around me. "Grace, you’re the only good thing in my life," he whispered. "You’re real. You’re honest. You’re nothing like those people." Later, as the autumn chill began to settle into the city, I wanted to surprise him. I started scrolling through a local buy-and-sell group, hoping to find a cheap, used electric moped to save him from walking to his night shifts. Instead, I stumbled across a listing posted by Charlotte. She was selling a duffel bag of discarded men's clothes. Her caption read: "The three-year starter pack for the heir of the Dumond empire pretending to be a pauper. Mission accomplished. Anyone want it?" Beneath the post, a comment asked: "So when is Austin coming back to New York for the engagement party?" Charlotte had replied: "Soon. Just waiting for the country girl to empty her bank account to buy him a scooter. Once she does, he wins the bet." I tapped the image, zooming in. Resting right at the top of the pile was a pale grey button-down shirt. It was the one I’d bought for Austin at a thrift market for ten dollars. The loose thread on the left cuff was held together by a neat, tiny stitch—one I had done myself, needle and thread in hand, under the dim light of our kitchen. Beside the shirt, in the reflection of the vanity mirror in the background of the photo, Austin was leaning down, kissing Charlotte's cheek. … I stared at the screen, zooming in until the pixels began to blur. The reflection was grainy, but I could never mistake that shirt. It was a washed-out grey, the cotton thin and worn, with that single white thread holding the cuff together. I remembered the night I brought it home. The thrift vendor had shouted, "Ten bucks, as-is, no returns!" I had been so worried Austin would find it cheap that I washed it three times with scented softener, then sat on the edge of our squeaky mattress, carefully mending the frayed seam. When he tried it on, he had wrapped his arms around my waist, laughing. "Our Grace has the best eye," he’d said. "A ten-dollar shirt looks like a thousand bucks on me." I had laughed with him. Only now did I realize he hadn’t been complimenting me. He had been mocking me. The comment section under the listing was gaining traction. "Austin is ruthless. Three years in a dingy Chicago neighborhood, and she actually believed he was a broke gig driver?" "The bet’s almost over, right? I heard she’s almost saved up enough." "Working-class girls are so easy to please. Tell them you’ll marry them someday, and they’ll give you their whole lives." I stared at the words "saved up enough". My fingers grew numb, the chill spreading from my fingertips straight to my chest. Under our bed, tucked inside a rusted metal band-aid tin, was exactly $18,362. I worked the register at a local bodega by day and ran plates at a greasy-spoon diner by night. I lived on expired sandwiches, bought groceries only when they marked down the produce at closing time, and skipped my own stomach medication whenever the cramps hit because the prescription was too expensive. I did it all because Austin told me how exhausting it was to drive drunk people around all night. "If only I had a moped," he’d sigh. "Just a cheap one, so I don't have to walk miles in the cold." My heart had ached for him. I thought I was standing by a good man, building a life from nothing. I didn't know I was just a chip on a roulette table. My phone buzzed. Austin: "Hey Grace, I’m going to be late tonight. Got a client who had way too much to drink. I’ll head home as soon as I drop her off." Staring at the word "her", a memory flashed through my mind. In the beginning, whenever Austin took a female client, he would immediately send me his live location. He’d even call me on speakerphone, loudly telling the passenger, "Sorry, just updating my girlfriend. She keeps me on a tight leash." I had always thought it was his way of making me feel secure. Now I knew the truth. The only person being watched was me. The deadbolt clicked. I slid the tin box back under the bed just as Austin walked through the door. He reeked of expensive gin and cold air. His wool coat was draped over his arm, and a faint smear of pink lipstick caught the light near his collar. He paused when he saw me sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark. "Why are you sitting up? You scared me." I looked up at him, my voice flat. "Was the client difficult?" He hesitated for a fraction of a second while kicking off his shoes, but the easy, charming smile returned to his face almost instantly. "Yeah, pretty bad. She was totally wasted, insisted I walk her up to her apartment. Annoying as hell." I kept my eyes on his collar. "Did she kiss you?" Austin’s expression tightened. He reached up, rubbing his collar, and when his fingers came away with a trace of pink, his brow furrowed in frustration. "She stumbled on the stairs and grabbed me. It must have rubbed off. Don't overthink it, Grace." He walked over, dropping to his knees in front of me, and took my cold hands in his warm ones. "You know who I am, right? I can't stand those rich, entitled women. They're parasitic." His palms were burning hot against mine. I shivered. "Austin," I whispered, "what if someone made a bet on me?" His grip tensed. "What?" "What if someone bet on how stupid I am? What if they wanted to see if I’d empty my entire life savings for a man? Would you find that funny?" Austin’s grip tightened further, turning my knuckles white. A forced laugh escaped his lips. "What's wrong with you tonight? Did someone treat you like garbage at the diner?" I pulled my hands out of his grasp. "No. Just asking." He watched me for a long moment, then reached out to ruffle my hair, his voice softening into that patronizing, comforting tone he used so well. "Stop letting your mind run wild. In a couple of days, I'll take you to look at that moped, okay?" I lowered my eyes. "Okay." He let out a quiet sigh of relief and turned to set his phone on the nightstand. As he did, the screen lit up. The contact name was simple: "Charlotte". While Austin was in the shower, I picked up his phone. The passcode was my birthday. He had never bothered to change it, probably because he was absolutely certain I would never look. His pinned chat wasn't me. It was a group text. The title: "The Dumond Charity Project". The latest message was from Charlotte: "Is he back yet? Don't blow your cover. I'm still expecting to watch her buy you that moped tomorrow." A string of laughing emojis followed. Someone else wrote: "Austin really played this perfectly. Three years? And she actually believed you were a broke valet?" Austin had replied: "She's sweet. Don't talk about her like that." My breath caught in my throat. But then I saw his next text, sent a second later: "But yeah, we're almost at the finish line. Once she hands over the cash, I'm heading back to Manhattan." My vision went black at the edges. I tapped on the group's shared media album. There were dozens of photos. A photo of me boiling cheap instant ramen, shot from behind. His caption: "Instant noodles again. She says she's saving up to buy me a ride." A photo of me coming home at 2:00 AM, holding a small package of discounted pork chops from the grocery store. His caption: "She wanted to cook me a proper meal. She's living on cabbage so I can have protein." And a photo of me sitting by the edge of the bed, carefully stitching the sleeve of his grey thrift-store shirt. I had thought he was asleep that night. He had been awake. Every single piece of my quiet, desperate love had been captured, uploaded, and served as entertainment for his wealthy friends. The comments on the photos were a physical blow. "Honestly, this is kind of sweet. Austin, don't tell me you're actually falling for her." "Fall for what? He and Charlotte have been set up since they were kids. The engagement party is already planned." "Working-class girls are so predictable. A little hot tea, some cheap pharmacy medicine, and walking them home—low investment, high return." That last comment was Charlotte's. Austin's response: "She really doesn't require much to be happy." A wave of nausea hit me. I remembered the first time he brought me stomach medicine. I had been curled up behind the counter at the bodega, sweating through my uniform from the pain. He had burst through the door, breathless, clutching a bottle of generic antacids and a cup of warm water. I had wept into his chest, believing with every fiber of my being that I was loved. It turned out even his kindness had been scripted. I exited the chat and opened his banking app. His checking account showed a balance of only thirty-four dollars. But his monthly transfer history revealed a recurring payment of $20,000. The description read: "Immersion Allowance". The sender: "Charlotte". While he had twenty thousand dollars sitting in a hidden account, I had been standing in the freezing rain, arguing with a grocer over a ten-cent discount on bruised apples. The bathroom door opened. Austin stood there, towel drying his damp hair. When his eyes fell on his phone in my hand, the color drained from his face. "Grace." I looked up. "The Dumond Charity Project?" His throat worked as he swallowed hard. "I can explain." "Explain what?" I managed a small, hollow laugh, though tears were already spilling over my cheeks. "Explain that you aren't a broke driver? Or that I'm not the gullible little charity case you all laughed at?" Austin crossed the room in two strides, grabbing my shoulders. "It started as a stupid joke. A bet. I never took them seriously." "And after that?" I peeled his fingers off me, one by one. "When you photographed me cooking? When you took pictures of me sewing your clothes, counting pennies, crying from stomach pain? Was that a joke too?" His voice cracked. "I stopped posting those a long time ago." "You posted one yesterday morning," I said, pointing the screen at him. "You laughed because I wouldn't even spend five dollars on my own prescription." Austin’s eyes welled with tears. "I bought you the medicine." "With whose money?" He froze. "With the twenty-dollar bill you took from under my pillow," I answered for him. The phone in my hand began to vibrate. Charlotte was calling. Austin didn't reach for it. The screen flashed repeatedly before shifting to a text notification: "Austin, tomorrow morning at ten. Don't forget the family lunch. We need to finalize the engagement party details." The silence in the room was suffocating. I reached under the bed, pulled out the rusted tin box, and threw it at his feet. The metal lid popped open, and thousands of crumpled ones, fives, and silver coins scattered across the linoleum floor. "There's eighteen thousand, three hundred and sixty-two dollars in there," I said, my voice steady despite the trembling in my chest. "I was going to buy you the moped tomorrow." Austin stared at the carpet of money, paralyzed. I grabbed my canvas duffel bag and began shoving my clothes inside. Terrified, he blocked the doorway. "Where are you going?" "Back to the real world." "This is your home, Grace," he pleaded, his voice shaking. I looked around the drafty, peeling studio apartment and felt a profound sense of absurdity. "A stage isn't a home, Austin." I shoved past him, but before I could reach the stairwell, the sharp click of high heels echoed from the hallway. A second later, Charlotte stood at the entrance, her designer coat immaculate, looking at the small space with visible disgust. "Austin, seriously? How do you even breathe in here?" She turned her gaze to me, a thin, patronizing smile on her lips. "Grace, right? Did you finally save up enough?" Austin stepped between us. "Charlotte, shut up." Charlotte raised an eyebrow. "Oh, are we playing protector now?" She strolled in, her stilettos stepping over the scattered bills. She looked down, letting out a soft, amused laugh. "Wow. You actually saved it all in cash." Austin’s face was white. "Get out of here." "What are you so afraid of?" Charlotte asked, turning her sharp gaze back to me. "Afraid she’ll find out that the very first day you met her was the day the bet began?" My chest tightened. "That's enough," Austin growled. But Charlotte wasn't stopping. "The bodega near the campus. You stood outside in the pouring rain, pretending your phone was dead and you had no cash for an umbrella. She gave you hers and walked home dripping wet. Did you really think that was a coincidence, Grace?" I stood frozen. I remembered that night clearly. I had just finished a double shift. Austin had been shivering under the bodega's awning, soaked through, looking so helpless. I had given him my only umbrella and twenty dollars for a cab. He came back the next day to return the money. That was how we started. It wasn't fate. It was a hunt. I turned to Austin. "Is that true?" Austin’s eyes were bloodshot. "The beginning was a mistake. But after that... I fell in love with you, Grace. That part was real." "In love with me?" I laughed, the sound sharp and painful. "So in love that you kept me in a group chat to entertain your friends? So in love that you lived off my cheap groceries while twenty thousand dollars cleared in your account every month? So in love that you're getting engaged to her tomorrow?" Austin raised his hand and slapped himself across the face. The sound was deafening in the small room. Charlotte gasped. "Austin!" He ignored her, looking only at me. "You can hate me, you can hit me, just don't walk out that door." Looking at the red mark blossoming on his cheek, I felt absolutely nothing. He was too good of an actor. He had played a starving driver for three years; playing the repentant lover was nothing to him. Charlotte spoke up, her voice cold and practical. "What's the point of begging her, Austin? Can she help you secure your family's board seats?" Austin whirled on her. "I told you, I am not marrying you." Charlotte's expression soured. "For her?" Austin didn't answer. She turned back to me, her eyes narrowing. "Grace, don't flatter yourself. Austin had to undergo a mandatory residency in a working-class environment as part of his family's transition plan. He found the rules tedious, so he turned it into a game. The bet was simple: could he survive three years at the bottom, and could he find some naive girl to support him?" "You were never a partner. You were his proof of concept." Every word felt like a physical strike. I picked up my duffel bag and headed for the stairs. Austin reached out to stop me. "It's late and it's pouring. Let me drive you." I couldn't help but smile. "Austin, the most dangerous thing in my life for the last three years was you." His hand froze in midair. Charlotte slid a black plastic card out of her designer purse and tossed it onto the kitchen table. "There's fifty thousand dollars on that card. Consider it compensation. Take the money, and don't contact him again." The card slid across the laminate wood, stopping near my boot. I bent down and picked it up. Austin stared at me, his eyes wide with disappointment. Charlotte smirked. "Smart girl." I walked over to the open window. Below us, the alley was dark, smelling of wet asphalt and garbage. I tossed the card into the dark. Charlotte's smirk vanished. "I don't want your charity," I said. "It smells like garbage." I pushed past Austin and walked down into the rain. The rain was relentless. By the time I reached the street, cold water had soaked through my thin jacket. My phone began to vibrate violently in my pocket. It was the owner of the diner, her voice trembling over the line. "Grace... did you get into some kind of trouble with the landlord or the city?" "I just got a call from our licensing representative. They said if you show up for your shift tomorrow, they’re fast-tracking a health and safety inspection. Grace, I can't risk my business." By the time I reached the diner, the owner was standing under the awning, wiping her eyes with an apron. She handed me her phone. On the screen was an unsigned text: "Keep Grace on the schedule, and building inspectors, tax audits, and health departments will be at your door by nine AM." There was no name. But I didn't need one. Charlotte’s family owned half the commercial real estate in this district. She didn't have to raise a finger to destroy me; she just had to drop a hint to the right people. The diner owner whispered, "I'm so sorry, Grace. I have a family to feed. Here's your final paycheck—I added a little extra." She pressed the envelope of cash into my hands. I couldn't blame her. A second later, a text arrived from the manager at the bodega: "Grace, don't come in tomorrow. We're overstaffed for the season." I stood on the sidewalk, the rain stinging my face, watching my entire life dissolve into the pavement. A sleek black Maybach pulled up to the curb. Austin stepped out from the backseat, a cashmere overcoat slung over his arm, his personal driver holding a large black umbrella over him. Seeing him like this, the illusion was completely shattered. He looked like a stranger. He walked toward me, the umbrella shielding him from the downpour. "Get in the car." I took a step back. "I didn't know Charlotte would go after your jobs," he said, his eyes rimmed with red. "I've already handled it. You can go back tomorrow." I looked at the heavy, customized umbrella in his hand. The handle was engraved with a polished silver "D". Whenever it rained during the last three years, he had shared a cheap, five-dollar plastic umbrella with me. He’d always tilt it so my side was covered, leaving his own shoulder soaked. He didn't lack a good umbrella. He just enjoyed the performance. "Is this fun for you?" I asked. He blinked. "What?" "Watching me panic over losing two minimum-wage jobs. Is it amusing?" "Watching me argue with grocers over pennies while you have thousands in the bank. Was that part of the fun?" "Watching me sew a ten-dollar shirt like it was a treasure. Did you laugh when you took those photos?" His knuckles turned white around the silver handle. "Grace, stop." "Tell me, Austin. How does it feel to play-act poverty?" His face went pale. "I'm sorry. I was wrong." I nodded slowly. "Then give me my three years back." He stood there, silent. As I turned to walk away, he called out behind me, "Grace, come to the estate with me." I stopped. "I'll handle Charlotte," he said quickly, desperate to keep me there. "I'll make things clear to my family. Just come with me, please." "What's happening at the estate tonight, Austin?" He flinched. "Just a family gathering." "Is it the engagement party?" He didn't answer. The rain drummed heavy against the canopy of his expensive umbrella. "I just need to manage the board members," he said quietly. "Give me thirty minutes to settle things." I let out a soft laugh. "You want me to watch you get engaged?" "No!" he cried, his voice cracking. "I'm trying to protect you from Charlotte. If you're with me, she can't touch you." "Protect me." It sounded so beautiful. I suddenly wanted to see exactly what his protection looked like. The Dumond estate was blindingly bright, nestled behind massive iron gates in the most exclusive enclave of the city. The family patriarch sat at the head of a long mahogany table, looking at Austin not as a grandson, but as a piece of defective inventory he was forced to manage. Austin led me into a second-floor parlor. "Wait here. I'll be right back." Down below, laughter floated up from the grand foyer. Someone called out, "Hey, Austin! Where's your little project? Did you bring her?" Charlotte’s voice followed, light and dripping with amusement. "Austin, don't let her come down. She'd look ridiculous in this room." After a brief pause, Austin's voice drifted up the stairs. "Drop it." Two words. No defense. No denial. No anger. I looked down at my waterlogged canvas sneakers, the fabric gray and thin. That was the moment I finally understood. It wasn't that he didn't know I was hurting. He just didn't think I belonged in the rooms where his life mattered. I turned the brass knob, stepped out of the parlor, and walked down the grand staircase. Every head in the foyer turned toward me. Charlotte stood near the grand piano, a glass of champagne in hand, her diamonds catching the light. "Grace," she smiled, her voice echoing off the marble. "I didn't think you'd actually have the nerve to show your face."
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "538960", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel