My Billionaire Boyfriend Who Pretended to Be Poor

My boyfriend James was poor, but he insisted on spoiling his Golden Retriever.

The dog ate premium raw meat; I ate expired discount bento boxes.

The dog slept in a custom climate-controlled kennel; we squeezed into a leaky trailer. James always said, "Max is our baby, we can't let him suffer."

To make ends meet, I took a second job waitressing at an exclusive country club.

Only to see James sitting there in a bespoke suit, a stunning woman leaning on his shoulder.

I recognized her instantly. Olivia Sterling. The club's most vicious platinum-tier member. Just last week, she had deliberately knocked over her espresso, making me scrub the floor on my hands and knees while she laughed to her friends about my "peasant work ethic."

What was my broke mechanic boyfriend doing with her?

What was my broke mechanic boyfriend doing with her?

A $10,000 bottle of Burgundy sat on the table as he casually fed A5 Wagyu to Max.

"Honestly, James," Olivia giggled, twirling her diamond necklace. "The dog gets better treatment than your dates."

"Don't be jealous," he smirked, handing her a black Amex. "Buy whatever makes you happy."

Looking at my faded uniform and my dish-water-ruined hands, the cruel joke finally clicked.

He wasn't poor. He was just testing me.

In his eyes, his pet deserved royalty, while I deserved to scrub floors.

So, I dropped my serving tray and walked away forever.

"Hey! Where do you think you’re going?" Davis, the banquet manager, blocked the swinging kitchen doors.

"Home," I said, untying my apron.

"You walk out now, Wheeler, and you forfeit this week's tips! All of it!"

Yesterday, the threat of losing five bucks would have made me apologize and scrub the baseboards. Today? I tossed the stained apron right at his chest. "Keep it."

I shoved past him and burst out the service exit.

I drove straight to a 24-hour diner on the edge of town. I didn't even glance at the right side of the menu.

"The T-bone steak," I told the waitress. "And a whole cherry pie."

The bill came to forty-five dollars. I paid upfront with a thick wad of crumpled one-dollar bills—tip money I had hoarded for weeks.

When the steak arrived, I sawed off a piece and shoved it into my mouth.

Just two days ago, James had yanked my wrist away from a five-dollar pack of ground beef at the discount grocery store.

"Put it back, Nancy," he had sighed, looking at me with those exhausted, hardworking eyes. "We stick to the clearance items. Every penny counts for our future."

I chewed the rubbery meat, my jaw aching. Our future.

I had scrubbed toilets and ruined my hands in industrial bleach for that future. I wore sneakers with holes in the soles just so he could afford tools for his "apprenticeship." I routinely skipped meals so he could have the bigger portions. I thought we were a team, fighting against the world.

But there was no team. He was a billionaire playing poverty simulator. He watched me bleed for him, knowing damn well his dog was eating $200 Wagyu off a silver fork. He watched me count pennies while he handed a black Amex to a woman wearing diamonds.

I swallowed the dry meat. It tasted like ash.

I left the pie untouched.

I drove back to our "home", a trailer. The floorboards groaned as I kicked the door open. I dumped my empty purse onto the wobbly table, the brass buckle clanking against the wood.

Headlights flashed through the thin curtains. A car door slammed. Max bounded inside first, his golden tail wagging. James walked in right behind him.

He wore a faded flannel shirt. His wrist was bare. The Rolex was gone.

His eyes locked on the table. He saw the white diner box holding the untouched pie, and the receipt I had tossed next to it. He stopped walking.

"Is that from Miller's Diner?" he demanded. He snatched up the receipt. "Forty-five dollars? Are you crazy?"

He slammed his keys on the counter. "Did you empty your tip jar for this?"

"Every last dollar," I said.

"Forty-five dollars is half our electric bill, Nancy! Do you think money grows on trees? We are broke. We can't waste cash on luxury meals."

"Luxury?" I let out a dry laugh. "Forty-five dollars doesn't even cover Max’s imported raw meat for a single day."

James froze. He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a loud sigh. "Bad shift? Look, I get it. You're tired. But don't take it out on me. And leave the dog out of this."

"I'm just doing the math, James."

"Max is my responsibility. I can't let him suffer just because we're struggling. You know that." He unzipped his battered duffel bag. "Look. I brought you a surprise. Since you want to complain about food."

He pulled out three black clamshell boxes and set them on the table.

They were the premium takeout containers from the country club.

"Rich client catered a gig at the auto shop today," James said, not blinking. "I saved the best parts for you. You never get to eat like this."

He popped the lids. Half a lobster tail. A slab of A5 Wagyu beef.

I stared at the Wagyu. A crescent-shaped bite was missing from the edge.

Olivia’s bite.

Two hours ago, I stood ten feet away and watched her chew that exact bite. I watched her laugh and tell James to feed the rest to his dog.

James brought me Olivia's trash.

"James," I said, staring at the meat. "Am I worse than a dog to you?"

He scoffed. "Are you seriously jealous of Max again? Eat the steak, Nance. It's Wagyu!"

I swung my hand and slapped the boxes.

Lobster and beef splattered across the linoleum floor. Grease smeared against the cabinets.

"Hey!" James jumped back. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I asked you a question!" I screamed. "Am I worse than a dog?!"

James stared at the ruined food. His face turned red. "I bring you premium food and you throw it on the floor?"

"You brought me garbage!"

"I didn't know you were this materialistic!" he yelled, stepping toward me. "I bust my ass at the shop, I bring you something nice, and this is what I get? Just because I don't have a fat bank account, you trample on my effort? It's elite food. You're acting like an entitled brat."

I looked him dead in the eye.

"You're right," I said. "I am materialistic. I am a gold digger. And I am sick of starving while your dog sleeps in a custom-heated bed!"

"Nancy—"

"I refuse to live worse than a dog anymore!"

I shoved past him, walked into the bedroom, and slammed the door. I locked it.

I sat on the edge of the mattress.

Ten minutes later, a paperclip hit the floor. The lock clicked. James pushed the door open.

He sat down beside me and wrapped his arm around my waist. He pulled me against his chest.

"Come on, baby," he whispered. "I'm sorry I yelled. Money is just tight right now. I'm stressed."

I shoved his arm off.

"I'm doing this for us," he said, reaching for me again. "Once I finish my apprenticeship, I'll open my own shop. I'll buy you a real house. Just trust me."

I stood up. "Don't touch me. I'm sleeping on the couch."

"Nancy, stop acting like a child."

I grabbed a pillow and walked out.

The living room was freezing. I lay down on the couch and pulled a thin fleece blanket over my legs. The wind rattled the trailer windows.

A wet nose nudged my hand.

Max stood next to the couch. He whined softly and licked my fingers. He rested his heavy head on my chest.

I held the dog that ate better than I did. I buried my face in his fur.

I looked at my cracked, dish-water-ruined hands.

The dog didn't know anything and did't do anything wrong. He was innocent.

But what did I do wrong?