1 Marcel was a trust-fund kid playing poor to date me. It was all a cruel little game, something for him and his buddies to laugh about. I knew all of this. I knew the script by heart. But even knowing Marcel was a liar, even as I worked three jobs to support his lazy ass, I didn't complain. How could I? My entire online brand was built on being the "ultimate ride-or-die girlfriend," the girl who’d do anything for her man. And let's be honest, with a face like Marcel’s, he was premium content. But I'm also a realist. In the world of internet fame, you have to keep things fresh if you want to stay relevant. So, when Marcel finally decided to drop the act, pulling his childhood sweetheart, Amy, into a nauseating embrace right in front of me, I was ready. I simply pulled out my phone—already live-streaming—and let the waterworks begin. “Hey fam,” I sobbed into the camera, “this is the ninety-ninth time he’s cheated on me. I think... I think I’m finally done.” “Drop some hearts in the chat if you think I should dump him for good!” … Crestwood had been drowning in rain for weeks. I stumbled home, soaked and miserable, just in time to overhear Marcel on the phone. The door to our rundown apartment was so flimsy his voice bled right through it. “Yeah, she’s out delivering food even in this downpour. Says she makes more during peak hours.” A pause. “For my birthday a few days ago? She got me a bottle of designer cologne. She must be totally broke now.” Another chuckle. “Her birthday? I gave her a plastic ring from a gumball machine. You’d think I gave her the moon, she was so touched.” He was really getting into it now. “Friends? Please. She doesn’t have any. Her entire world revolves around me.” “Honestly, though, it’s getting a little boring. She’s just… too easy.” “I’ll give it a little longer. Once I’m completely tired of her, I’ll dump her.” His voice was a lazy, self-satisfied drawl. And why wouldn't it be? He had a complete doormat worshiping the ground he walked on, a doormat who worked herself to the bone to pay his bills and validate his ego. Instead of anger, a different kind of thrill shot through me. I waited patiently for him to hang up before turning the key in the lock. When I walked in, he flinched, quickly pocketing his phone. “You… you just get back?” he asked, a flicker of panic in his eyes. I played my part, feigning ignorance as I collapsed onto the worn-out welcome mat. “Yeah, I’m exhausted.” Then, I beamed, a perfect picture of naive devotion. “But I made an extra fifty bucks today! We can get something nice for dinner!” I threw my arms around him, and I felt the tension leave his body as he realized I hadn’t heard a thing. Later that night, as Marcel washed the dishes from our takeout spicy noodle bowls, I snuck a picture from behind him. The photo captured half of my face, smiling softly, and the sharp, beautiful line of his jaw. I crafted the perfect caption: “With you, even a cheap bowl of noodles feels like a feast. ” Marcel was used to my constant photo-ops and gushing social media posts. It was all part of the act. A girl this pathetically devoted was a rare find, and he was more than happy to play along, encouraging my obsession. I posted the photo, set my phone to silent, and curled up next to him on the lumpy sofa to watch some dumb TV show. Within the hour, the post was already gaining traction. Most of the comments, as usual, were calling me an idiot. A few defenders would pop up: “She’s just having noodles with her boyfriend… why is everyone being so mean?” And they’d be immediately shut down: “Dude, you need to check her post history. This girl is a case study in terminal desperation.” “She works three jobs to support this guy, even after catching him sexting his ‘childhood friend.’ She’s a lost cause.” Soon, the thread was a waterfall of people pitying me, disgusted by my lack of self-respect. I couldn’t have cared less. A new message had just popped up in my DMs from a potential sponsor. “Hi Mae, we love your content! Would you be interested in promoting our new couples’ app?” “Compensation is negotiable.” I snuggled deeper into Marcel’s arms, a genuine smile gracing my lips as I typed back a reply. He nudged my chin. “What are you smiling about?” I squeezed his hand, my voice full of manufactured excitement. “I just got an offer for a one-day gig tomorrow! Another fifty bucks!” I declared proudly. “Once I save up enough, I’m taking my baby out for a proper dinner!” Marcel was hiding his real life from me, and I was hiding my real job from him. Seemed fair. I’d known from the start what a nasty piece of work Marcel was. I knew this whole relationship was a game to him. But damn, that face of his was a work of art. Among the guys in my orbit back then, he was on another level. My name is Mae. The matron at the orphanage gave it to me. I was left on their doorstep in the dead of winter, right when the single, stubborn plum tree in their courtyard decided to bloom against all odds. So yes, I was genuinely poor. No trust fund, no magic wand. I grew up in the system, bounced around rural foster homes, with no family connections and no knack for academics. When I first tried to make it as a content creator, I got zero traction. So when a guy like Marcel wandered into my life, even knowing his motives, I was more than willing to play his game. After all, any video with his face in it got an insane amount of views. But I’ve been poor for too long. It makes you greedy. So, not a single penny of the money I earned online ever made its way to Marcel. If he knew, he’d find a way to make my life a living hell. He fed on my misery, like a handsome parasite. Whenever I shared good news, he’d cut me down. “That dress is hideous on you. Makes your waist look thick. Return it.” “God, can’t you just relax? It’s only a few hundred dollars! So what if I bought some new clothes? Not my problem if we can’t afford groceries now!” “You’re the one who promised to love me forever! That was the deal when we got together!” “What, are you thinking of backing out now? You want to leave me?!” Every time, without fail, he’d use my initial promises against me. And every time he saw me miserable, he’d soften, pulling me close and whispering sweet apologies. It was a sick cycle. Given the stakes, there was no way I could let him know I was secretly making bank. So, I rented a small, clean studio apartment not far from our shared dump. My “long, grueling workdays” were spent there, writing ad scripts in peace. When I got tired, I’d hop on the treadmill I’d bought, pushing myself until I was a sweaty, exhausted mess—the perfect picture of a girl run ragged. Then I’d drag myself back to our grimy little apartment. Marcel ate it up. He’d greet me at the door each night, a smug little smile playing on his lips as he took in my disheveled state. “You’re back? Tough day? How much did you make?” And I’d force a weary smile, dutifully reporting my meager earnings. These moments of fake domestic bliss were always short-lived. Inevitably, a call would come and he’d have to leave. “It’s my business partner,” he’d explain hurriedly, “we’re trying to get a startup off the ground.” I would nod obediently and watch him go. Of course, I knew exactly who was calling: his precious Amy. She loved the idea of me being played for a fool, but she couldn’t stand Marcel showing me any affection. So, she made it a habit to summon him away almost every night. Once, I followed them. I got photos and a video of them in his car. In the clip, they were tangled together, a dangerous, electric heat between them. Amy’s eyes were glistening as she bit his lip, a playful punishment. “When are you going to dump that charity case, Marcel? I hate having to sneak around like this! It’s humiliating!” He showered her with kisses and soothing words. “Soon, baby, soon. Just a little longer. Aren’t you having fun watching the show? When the time comes, I’ll make her get on her knees and beg me not to leave. She’s so obsessed with me, she’ll do anything we want. You can play with your new little toy however you like.” I clipped a piece of that audio and posted it online. It caused an uproar. Using it as an excuse, I picked a massive fight with Marcel. He wasn't done playing his game yet, so he wasn't ready to let me go. He recorded a video, tears in his eyes, promising me he would never, ever do it again. I immediately posted his tearful apology video with the caption: “Thank you all for your concern. He knows he was wrong. I believe everyone deserves a second chance. Please wish us luck.” As expected, I was torn to shreds online. But the hate-views sent my engagement through the roof. After that stunt, my online persona was set in stone. I was infamous. People made entire YouTube videos dissecting my toxic relationship. A whole community even popped up, calling themselves experts in “Mae-ology,” dedicated to analyzing my every love-sick move. But I knew this couldn’t last. The pathetic, devoted girlfriend shtick has a shelf life, even with Marcel’s pretty face as bait. Change is the only constant. I learned that lesson early. I just didn’t expect Marcel to be the one to force my hand. It was midnight, and he still wasn’t home. A strange anxiety fluttered in my chest. A storm was brewing; I could feel it in my bones. Thirty minutes later, my phone rang. It was him. “Marcel, where are you? Are you okay?” I asked, my voice trembling on cue. “Mae, get over here,” he slurred. “I’m drunk. Come pick me up on your moped.” He texted me an address. The background noise was a chaotic mix of laughter and loud music—some upscale VIP lounge. I looked out the window at the rain, which was now coming down in sheets. “Marcel, I only have the moped… and it’s pouring out. It’s not safe…” I hesitated. “Let me just call you an Uber…” “Tsk,” he clicked his tongue, annoyance lacing his drunken voice. “You think it’s safe for me to go home alone? If you don’t care about me that much, then maybe we should just break up.” “Wait! Don’t say that!” I cried out, my voice laced with desperation. I let out a long-suffering sigh. “Okay. I’ll come. I’m on my way.” He didn’t hang up. Through the phone, I could hear his friends roaring with laughter. “Told you, man. Marcel’s got that girl trained like a puppy.” “Girlfriend? Nah, she’s a doormat. A placeholder at best.” “Yeah, everyone knows Marcel’s real girl is Amy.” “Still, I can’t wait to see the look on her pathetic face when she gets here. It’s gonna be epic.” A wave of joyous laughter followed. I quietly ended the call and ordered myself a luxury black car service. If you’re going into battle, you might as well arrive in style. My hands were shaking the entire ride over. Not from fear. From pure, unadulterated excitement. Marcel, my lucky star. He gave me the content I needed to launch my channel, and now he was handing me the perfect opportunity to reinvent myself. For that, I could play the part of the heartbroken girlfriend for five more minutes. When I arrived at the lounge, my first stop was the restroom. I ran my hands under the faucet and plastered my bangs to my forehead, then splashed water over my t-shirt to complete the "drenched in the rain" look. Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the heavy door to the private room. It was a huge, opulent space, filled with a crowd of glittering, beautiful people. Marcel was in a dark corner, with Amy draped over him like a silk scarf. The moment I stepped inside, every eye snapped to me. Some were hungry for the drama, others just scanned my body, their gazes lingering on my soaked, semi-transparent shirt. Marcel saw it too and let out a cold, mocking laugh. “Well, look what the rain dragged in, Mae. You look pathetic.” I froze, staring at them for a beat. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, I let out a guttural scream and lunged, trying to tear them apart. “Why… why is it always HER?” I shrieked, my voice raw. “Marcel! You promised! You promised me you wouldn’t do this again! WHY?!” My mind raced. “Is it about money? Do you need money?” I started frantically pulling crumpled bills from my worn-out canvas tote bag, shoving them into his chest. “I… I made a lot today, you can have it all! Just… just come home with me, please…” He didn't even flinch. He just watched me with a detached amusement, like I was a fascinating, rabid animal. The people around us were loving the show, phones already out, recording everything. “ANSWER ME!” I screamed, grabbing the collar of his expensive shirt. Amy let out a delicate cry. “Marcel! She’s hurting me! Do something!” His brow furrowed in annoyance. With a casual shove, he sent me sprawling to the floor. “Stop making a scene,” he sneered. “Fine, you want the truth? Here it is. I’m Marcel Croft. My family practically owns New York. I don’t need your pathetic pocket change. Dating you was just a game, something to kill the boredom.” He crouched down, a cruel smirk on his face. “But I will admit, watching you run yourself into the ground for me was… satisfying. You really are a good little dog.” He patted my head, the gesture dripping with condescension, before Amy’s soft coo pulled him back to her. He planted a long, deliberate kiss on her cheek, his eyes locked on me the entire time, daring me to react. Their glamorous love story was the perfect, brutal contrast to my pathetic, rain-soaked failure. I sat on the cold floor, head bowed, my shoulders shaking with what everyone assumed were sobs. The trust-fund brats waited, breathless. This was the moment they’d been anticipating: the part where the poor girl finds out he’s a prince and clings to his leg, begging him not to leave her. Okay, showtime. In one swift movement, I wiped away the fake tears. From a hidden pocket in my grimy tote bag, I pulled out my brand-new smartphone. The screen was glowing. It was my livestream. And the viewer count was pushing one hundred thousand.
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