After discovering my rich boyfriend was a serial cheater addicted to online dating, I didn't cry. Instead, I registered nine fake accounts and catfished him as nine different "dream girls." My best friend screamed, "You are such a simp! You’re going to get played!" But on Valentine's Day, I received ten different luxury gifts. She looked at the pile of designer boxes and gave me a thumbs up. "You’re not a simp. You’re a CEO." 1. On Valentine's Day, my best friend Chloe and I hauled ten packages back from the mailroom. I opened the first one addressed to my real name, Harper. It was a lipstick set. Maybe a hundred bucks, tops. Chloe shoved her phone in my face, sneering. "See that? To Caleb, you’re worth a trip to Sephora." I smiled, didn't say a word, and kept opening boxes. "Harper, seriously," she groaned. "You need to touch grass. Dump him!" I opened the second box. Chloe’s jaw dropped. "Whoa, who sent that? That’s heavy." I stayed silent and kept ripping open packaging. By the time I was done, the floor was covered in loot: A Chanel classic flap bag, a Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet, a Cartier ring, gold bars... Chloe’s eyes were the size of dinner plates. "Caleb sent... all of these?" 2. Caleb is my boyfriend. We met online. He’s a trust fund baby, a bona fide rich kid. Initially, I was attracted to his money. He was attracted to my voice. Before we even met in person, I mentioned my phone battery was dying. Caleb overnighted me the newest iPhone. My cat spilled water on my laptop; a MacBook Pro arrived the next day. Eventually, love-brain took over. Caleb flew to Los Angeles, bought a condo, and we moved in together. He convinced me to quit my 9-to-5. He gave me a $2,000 monthly allowance and showered me with surprises. I lived a life I used to only see on Instagram. I swapped my Old Navy flip-flops for Jordans and Jimmy Choos. I used La Mer on my ankles. I wouldn't touch a bag unless it cost four figures. Dripping in gold, living the dream. Everyone said I was the main character in a romance novel. After all, Caleb was rich, handsome, and had abs. But six months in, I caught him sexting other girls. I cried in Chloe’s arms for three hours. She begged me to dump him. I couldn't do it. Who in their right mind breaks up with an ATM? The next day, I registered nine burner accounts on Instagram and Snapchat. I created personas: The Texas Cowgirl who loves BBQ and trucks, the E-Girl obsessed with anime and cosplay, the NYC Intellectual who quotes Nietzsche, the struggling LA Actress... Chloe called me pathetic. I ignored her and added Caleb on every account. When I went back to the condo, pretending I knew nothing, Caleb told me his mom was sick and he had to fly back to the East Coast for a month. I nodded like a good girlfriend. "I'll pack some gifts for your mom." Caleb was so touched he Venmo’d me $10,000 on the spot. "Buy whatever you want while I'm gone," he said, looking guilty. I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. Ten grand? Sweetie, I’m just getting started. After Caleb left, I juggled ten personalities. I kept a spreadsheet: which persona talked about what, which address to send gifts to, what their "love language" was. My acting was Oscar-worthy. My typing speed was god-tier. By the time Valentine's Day rolled around, I had manipulated Caleb into sending ten separate gifts. Was it a lot of work? No. It was billable hours. Chloe looked at the haul and saluted me. "You are my hero." 3. Ten burner phones were lined up on the coffee table. I picked up the "Texas Cowgirl" phone and sent a voice note with a thick accent: "Got the gift, cowboy. When are we gettin' ribs?" Then the "NYC Intellectual" phone: "Received. Adequate. I expect better effort next time." Then the "E-Girl" phone: "Omg thank you Daddy for the cosplay fit! uwu." ... Chloe watched the operation in stunned silence. "You are terrifying." She asked what I planned to do with the loot. I kept the lipstick. The rest went straight to The RealReal and Poshmark. The notifications of cash deposits were music to my ears. My savings account was hitting $60,000. Just a little longer, and I could buy my own place. Just as I was celebrating, Caleb texted. He was coming back. I couldn't be in the same room with him; I had nine other boyfriends to manage. So, I booked tickets to Cabo for Chloe and me. I sent Caleb a voice note sounding heartbroken: "Babe, I'm so sorry. Chloe just went through a brutal breakup. I’m taking her to Mexico to cheer her up." Caleb texted back: "I'll come too! I'll carry your bags." Stay away, you clingy cheater. I replied patiently: "I don't think that's a good idea. She's really fragile right now. Seeing us so happy and in love would just crush her." After some back and forth, Caleb finally agreed. To compensate me, he transferred another $15,000. "Have fun, babe. I got you VIP tickets to that festival you wanted." If my nine other phones weren't buzzing with his "I miss you" texts, I might have actually believed he loved me. We partied in Cabo for a week. I worked remotely as a customer service rep for his love life. When we flew back to LA, Caleb picked us up in his new G-Wagon. I pinched Chloe until she started crying. "See?" I whispered to Caleb. "She's a wreck." In the car, I pretended my phone died and used Caleb’s phone to navigate. I quickly checked his archived chats. Good. He had deleted the conversations with my nine alter egos. That night, while Caleb showered, I executed the plan. I used the nine phones to text him. Nine messages, staggered two minutes apart. When he came out, I pointed at his phone on the coffee table. "Babe, your phone is blowing up. Is it an emergency?" Caleb looked panicked. He grabbed the phone, turned his back to me, and checked. "Nothing. Just spam. Group chats." "Oh," I said, giving him a knowing look. He sat down and wrapped his arm around me. "I felt bad about missing Valentine's Day. I want to make it up to you." Caleb, the guilt-ridden liar, went all out. He took me to the most expensive sushi place in Nobu, rented a private yacht for sunset, and set up a romantic proposal scene. Proposal? Bro, are you serious? What is this plot twist? 4. I excused myself to the bathroom and called Caleb's mom. "Mrs. Sterling, your son is proposing. What do I do?" Mrs. Sterling’s voice was calm. "Say yes." I hung up, looked in the mirror, and hyped myself up. Fine. It’s just a ring. Here’s the backstory: While I was in Cabo, Mrs. Sterling contacted me. She knew everything. She knew about the nine accounts. Instead of threatening to sue me or send me to jail, she offered me a deal. She wanted me to teach her son—who was addicted to online romances—a lesson. The reward? A villa in the Hollywood Hills. Title in my name. "Why should I trust you?" I had asked. "Because you're the longest relationship he's ever had," she said. "You don't ask questions as long as the money clears. You're pragmatic. I like that." So, Mrs. Sterling and I became partners. Caleb was a hopeless romantic with a wandering eye. I was his tenth "real" girlfriend, but the only one who stuck around because I treated him like a job. With his mom’s blessing, I walked out and said yes. The diamond was huge. I posted it on Instagram immediately. Chloe called me screaming. "He's trash! I support scamming him, but marriage? You're ruining your life!" "Who stays married forever these days anyway?" "Harper... you can't tie yourself to a sinking ship." "You're thinking too small," I whispered. "To a gold digger like me, Caleb isn't a man. He's a golden goose." Two days later, I took Chloe to a commercial space under renovation on Melrose Avenue. "Pick a spot. What do we want to put here?" Chloe looked confused. "You're acting like you own the place." I pulled the deed out of my bag. Chloe’s scream shattered glass. "Caleb bought you a storefront?!" "Not just bought," I corrected. "Fully funded operational costs." "How... how did you do that?"
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