Chapter 1

To save up money for my boyfriend and me, I took a private catering gig through an app, even though I was six months pregnant.

Usually, these home-cooking gigs paid a couple of hundred bucks. But this one was offering thousands.

When I arrived at the luxury penthouse, I softly asked the hostess if she had made a mistake with the pricing.

She laughed gently. "No mistake. My husband loves me too much. He said he couldn't stand seeing me holding a spatula, so he insisted we hire someone. I hope we didn't make you feel awkward."

I smiled, feeling a pang of envy. The money from this single job would have taken my boyfriend and me months to save.

I turned around to prep in the kitchen. As I was washing the vegetables, my phone lit up.

My boyfriend sent a Snapchat message saying he’d be home late because he was doing food delivery to make extra cash.

I wiped my hands on my apron and was about to reply when I heard the front door click open.

Then came a man’s voice. "Just got out of my meeting. Did you miss me, babe?"

I had listened to that voice for three years. I could recognize it with my eyes closed.

It was my boyfriend. The man I had been with for three years, the one I had been too afraid to introduce to my family because of his "poverty."

The baby in my belly kicked hard. I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter so tightly that my nails dug into the marble, and blood began to seep from the cuticles.

The pain spread from my fingertips to my palms, but I couldn't feel it. All my senses were hijacked by the voice outside.

In the living room, the happy sounds of a family of three filled the air.

The man was playing with the toddler, and the woman was laughing. That laughter felt like a blunt knife, slowly carving out my heart.

Austin.

I had whispered that name for three years. I had genuinely believed he was the poorest, most miserable, most pitiful man in the world.

He had told me his company’s supply chain broke, leaving him in massive debt. He said debt collectors were hounding him, and he had almost jumped off a building.

He told me his parents died in a car crash years ago, leaving him with no support, and that we had to rely entirely on ourselves to get married.

He said we had to save slowly, or else he would feel like he was failing me and my mom.

When he told me those things, he cried like a baby.

The first time I saw him cry was on the bed in my cheap rented apartment. He buried his face in my lap, his shoulders shaking.

"Chloe, do you look down on me? If you do, I’ll understand."

My heart broke for him. I wrapped my arms around his head and said, "I don't care about the money. I’ll always be here with you."

I handed him my debit card and told him the PIN was his birthday.

He took the card, clutching it tightly.

"Chloe, I swear I’ll treat you right for the rest of my life."

He put the card into his wallet—a cheap, fake leather thing with frayed, peeling edges.

Only later did I find out that his actual wallet was a customized Louis Vuitton one, resting casually on Victoria’s shoe rack.

I gave him all my savings—about ten thousand dollars. That was money I had saved over two years, meant for a cheap used car.

He insisted it was a loan and even wrote me a promissory note: "Austin owes Chloe $10,000, to be paid within a year."

A year had passed, and the note was still in his pocket.

I found it once while doing the laundry. He told me, "Don't throw it away. It’s our promise." I believed him. I folded it neatly and put it back.

And now, here I was, six months pregnant, taking heavy catering gigs to make a quick two hundred dollars.

He was the one who encouraged me to take on more jobs. He helped me book two extra slots, saying, "Late-night gigs pay better. Do a few more runs, and we’ll reach our goal faster."

I never doubted his sincerity.

Every time I was too exhausted and wanted to give up, he would kneel down, press his ear to my belly, and look up with bright, child-like eyes.

"Chloe, listen! Our baby is kicking me. He’s so strong. He’s definitely going to be a boy, just like me. Once we save enough, we’ll get registered. I’ll cook for you every day and spoil you rotten."

With just that one sentence, I would drag myself up from my squeaky mattress and stand on my feet for another eight hours.

But now, peering through the crack of the kitchen door, I saw the ugly truth.