1 To save my boyfriend, the man with the failing heart, I worked myself to the point of collapse. I juggled multiple jobs, scrimping and saving every penny for his treatment. I was so broke I couldn't even afford medicine when I got sick myself. So when I heard about the "Gold Dust Challenge"—a publicity stunt where you could literally scramble for gold flakes on the ground—I signed up without a second thought. I was on my hands and knees, scrambling through dirt and gravel like a feral dog, desperate to find enough "gold dust" to exchange for cash. For his life. I was led inside to a back office to cash in my findings. And through the thin wall, I heard his voice. A reporter was interviewing him. "Mr. Schwimmer, you spent over three million dollars on this event, all to bring a smile to Miss Isabelle Vance's face. Your devotion is truly something to be admired." A familiar, chillingly casual voice replied. "It's nothing. If it makes Isabelle happy, then letting these desperate people grovel for it is the most value they'll ever provide." I clutched the three thousand dollars I had just earned, the irony a bitter pill in my throat. ... My boyfriend, Patrick Schwimmer, was a poor kid with a congenital heart defect who couldn't rub two pennies together. That's what he'd told me. So my first reaction was denial. It couldn't be him. The man who couldn't afford a thirty-dollar co-pay couldn't possibly be the one who just dropped three million on a party. Besides, my Patrick was in the hospital right now, his heart too weak to leave his bed. It had to be a coincidence. Someone who sounded like him, who also happened to be named Schwimmer. But the next sound shattered that fragile hope. A woman's delicate laughter, a sound I recognized with a sickening jolt. "Oh, Patrick," Isabelle Vance cooed, "they look just like little puppies, don't they? It's hysterical! Especially that one who looks a bit like your girlfriend, Leah. Look at how hard she's trying. She must be desperate for the money." I heard a sharp intake of breath. On the other side of the wall, Patrick's eyes were glued to the monitor displaying the live feed of the event. He quickly typed something on his phone. A second later, my own phone buzzed. [Baby, where are you? Don't push yourself too hard. Rest if you're tired.] A bitter laugh escaped my lips. My hand trembled so badly I could barely hold the phone. [Don't worry, I'm resting now. I found a great gig today, made a full three thousand!] He sent back a kissing emoji. [That's my girl. Another few days of hospital bills covered.] How utterly laughable. A grotesque smile stretched my lips, but tears streamed down my face like pearls from a broken string. Convinced the pathetic creature on the screen wasn't me, Patrick relaxed. He chuckled. "On all fours like that," he said to Isabelle. "They really do look like dogs begging their master for a bone." The room erupted in laughter. "Look at the way she's sticking her butt in the air! It's like she's wagging her tail!" "People like that would do anything for money. I bet if you told her to lick your shoes, she'd do it without a second thought." "Mr. Schwimmer's shoes are custom-made, worth millions! Letting trash like her lick them would be an honor!" On my side of the wall, I stared down at my own worn-out sneakers, my big toe poking through a hole. In that moment, my dignity shattered into a million pieces. 2 I took the money and turned to leave, but I ran straight into Patrick. He saw me, and for a fleeting second, panic flashed in his eyes. Then his gaze fell to my tattered work uniform, and his expression soured with a subtle, unmistakable disgust. He rounded on the security guard. "How did a participant get in here? What are you people paid for?" The event coordinator quickly stepped in. "Mr. Schwimmer, my apologies. This participant needed cash immediately for a medical bill, so we brought her backstage. We're leaving now." I stared at Patrick, dumbfounded. He stood there, impossibly handsome and regal in his bespoke suit, looking nothing like a sick man. The fabric was so fine, woven with threads of gold that I could spend a lifetime scrambling for and never afford. My throat was raw. I couldn't tell if my voice was trembling or if I just couldn't speak at all. "Patrick," I finally managed to whisper. "Are you going to pretend you don't know me?" Before Patrick could answer, the people behind him, the same ones who had just been mocking me, looked horrified. "Is this the famous girlfriend? But... her clothes..." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. Everyone was thinking it. My face was sallow, my skin rough, my clothes practically rags. I was the woman who had just been crawling on the ground for money. I looked like I was one step away from starving. How could I possibly be Patrick Schwimmer's girlfriend? Patrick's face was a mask of fury, the veins on his arm bulging. He looked at me with cold, hard eyes, as if my very presence was a source of profound embarrassment. Isabelle, standing beside him, let out an exaggerated yawn. "Oh, not this again. Another desperate woman trying to get Patrick's attention. I've heard this line so many times it's boring." It was the out Patrick needed. He stepped around me without a flicker of recognition. "A rather pathetic attempt at getting my attention," he said coolly. The bitterness in my mouth was suffocating. My mind flashed back to college. Freshman year, the student council had hazed me, forcing me to run five miles. I refused, and they dumped a bucket of toilet water on my head. They made me stand in the blazing sun for two hours until I finally collapsed. The last thing I saw before I passed out was Patrick scooping me up and rushing me to the infirmary. He told me my defiance, the look in my eyes, shone like a star. From that day on, he was my protector. He stood up for me, even when it meant being punished and humiliated himself. He never cared if my clothes were dirty or if I was a mess. His love felt so real, so true. It was why I had chosen to stay with him, even after he told me about his "heart condition." The man from my memories and the man standing before me now were two different people. I don't know where the courage came from, but I lunged forward and grabbed his sleeve. The expensive fabric wrinkled, leaving white marks from the dust on my fingers. His eyes flashed with irritation. "I doubt you could afford to replace this if you sold everything you own." I cut him off. "Since you're not sick, and you're not poor... can I have my money back?" Because I'm the one who's sick now. With a single look from Patrick, the people behind him tactfully withdrew. "I faked being poor and sick to test you," he said, his voice low and cold. "To see if you were like all the other women, just after my money." "It seems you're all the same." I didn't argue. I just looked at him and repeated my question. "Can I have my money back?" He yanked his arm away with such force that I stumbled and fell to the floor. "You dirtied my clothes, and you have the audacity to ask me for money?" 3 He saw my tear-filled eyes, and his tone softened slightly. "Don't go to work for the next few days. Get some rest. I've scheduled some appointments with a few stylists. We'll give you a makeover." He paused, looking down at me. "Until then, let's just pretend we don't know each other, okay?" It was as if I hadn't heard him. I enunciated each word with chilling clarity. "Give. Me. My. Money." His patience snapped. His eyes darkened, and he ground out the words through clenched teeth. "If you just behave, I'll give you any amount of money you want." He said it as if he were making a great concession. "Even if you only got close to me for my money, fine. I accept it." I closed my eyes, letting the tears fall freely. "Patrick, let's break up." He laughed, a smug, knowing sound. "Afraid I'll think you're a gold digger, so you're preemptively breaking up with me? Is that the game?" "You knew my identity all along, didn't you? You deliberately joined this event. Even crawling on the ground... you did that for us to see, didn't you?" I stared at him in disbelief. I had never known him to be so delusional. "Patrick, how did I never realize how disgusting you are?" I spat. "If you hadn't faked being sick, would I have had to work myself to the bone? My life would be better without you." He sneered. "Still pretending?" "Without me, do you think you would have graduated? Without me, do you think you would have landed a job at a Fortune 500 company right out of college? You're nothing without me!" I turned my back on him, no longer wanting to waste another breath. His voice, dripping with certainty, followed me. "You won't last a week. You'll come crawling back to me." The next few days were a living hell. One by one, my part-time jobs suddenly "no longer needed me." Then, my corporate job fired me, offering a generous severance package just to get me out the door. The moment the money hit my account, long-lost relatives I'd never met materialized, claiming my parents owed them money. After everything, all I had left was the three thousand dollars from the Gold Dust Challenge. I clutched my chest, each breath a struggle. Three years of sleeping only five hours a night had taken its toll. My body was shutting down. After buying my medication, I didn't even have enough left for rent. Every company I applied to rejected me the second they heard my name. Just as I was about to lose all hope, I got an offer for a one-day gig. When I arrived, I realized my employer was Isabelle. She poured a glass of water on the floor and ordered me to clean it up on my hands and knees. One of her friends poked me with a stick, tsking theatrically. "You stink," Isabelle said with a laugh. Then she kicked me into the swimming pool and watched me struggle to stay afloat, plastering hundred-dollar bills to my soaked, semi-sheer shirt. When I remained silent, she seemed to lose interest. "Don't you have any dignity?" I gathered the wet bills, tucking them carefully into my pocket. "Dignity is a luxury for the rich. You've never been poor. You wouldn't understand." She smiled. "What about this? Does this mean anything to you?" I looked at the necklace in her hand, and my world stopped. It was the only thing my mother had ever given me. I had given it to Patrick on his birthday. The last thread of my sanity snapped. I lunged at her, but a strong hand caught me mid-air. Patrick held me back easily, looking at me like I was a misbehaving pet. "Isabelle has a weak heart," he said calmly. "Just let it go. How much is the necklace worth? I'll buy it from her for you."
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