Three months into our online relationship, we had settled into a routine of mostly texting, with the occasional voice call. Video chats were a rare indulgence.

Every video call felt like a high-stakes guerrilla operation to me.

I had to constantly brace myself for the sudden blast of music or a neighbor’s kid’s high-pitched meltdown from downstairs.

To him, I presented myself as a young woman striving in a big city, living humbly while staying optimistic and bright.

Terry, on the other hand, claimed to be a regular office worker in a small, unheard-of company.

Apparently, he resided in some company housing. His back was always facing the pitch-black curtain, and the lighting was forever dimmed.

We bonded over figuring out which cafeteria dish was the worst that day.

Otherwise, we vented about the sardine-packed subways.

We were drawn together by the idea that misery loves company, forming an online relationship that others might call sketchy.

Everything changed on the God-awful night.

I worked overtime until nearly ten at night.

By the time I headed back to my $800 budget rental, I felt as if my soul had been sucked dry.

I threw a tuna sandwich together and jumped on Terry’s video call request.

The call was quickly connected.

“You’re home late today,” he uttered.

“Don’t get me started. My boss is out of his mind. I had to rewrite the business proposal like eight hundred times, only for the first draft to make the cut in the end. Isn’t that frustrating? I can’t stand looking at the computer screen now…”

Terry listened quietly, occasionally chiming in to acknowledge he was still there with me.

Just as I ranted about how my superior spilled coffee on my newly printed proposal for the umpteenth time today, the unexpected happened.

The eternal darkness behind Terry somehow shifted.

Then came a thud of heavy fabric crashing to the floor.

“Huh? Did something fall?”

Taken aback, Terry looked back.

Then came the light.

I wasn’t talking about a lamp or a row of bulbs. It was a blanket of light.

The glare was so intense and blinding.

The first thought that hit my mind was that the sun fell into his living room.

Surely, someone had installed the laser disco lights on his ceiling.

It took quite an effort for me to squint and focus.

That was no ordinary chandelier.

The fixture was ridiculously massive, like the kind featured in a French palace.

“Holy moly!” I blurted, my vocabulary regressing to that of an elementary school dropout. “Do you have a waterfall made of rock candy hanging from your ceiling? Did some tourist attraction close down, and you brought the lighting home?”

I couldn’t comprehend the sheer absurdity of it.

The incident threw Terry for a fluster.

Jolting to his feet, he tried to cover the camera, but it was too late.

As he stood up, the camera jerked and fleeted past the giant crystal chandelier to the rest of the room.

My breath hitched.

It screamed one thing—wealth.

In a brief sweep of the camera, I caught a glimpse of a manicured garden through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows.

Absurdly, I couldn’t take my eyes away from the piece of A4 with kiddish scribbles that read, “Sam and Ter, together forever!”

That was from a month ago, when I was overcome with a moment of creativity during a late-night shift. I doodled something and sent him a picture.

Terry even complimented my art for its unique, childlike whimsy.

The supposed masterpiece, valued at no more than fifty cents with the paper included, hung right next to a Picasso.

“Give it up, Terry. What do you actually do? This level of editing should put you in Hollywood. Are you doing special effects there or staging luxury real estate listings? Why did you edit to put my drawing there? Are you trying to troll the real artists?”

Terry looked at me with a mix of emotions.

The camera switched to the rear-facing lens.

His face disappeared from the screen.

Instead, I was staring at a room filled with untouchable opulence.

“Yeah, no edits. They are all real.” He paused, his tone shifting awkwardly. “My dad came by a couple of days ago and saw your artwork. He said…”

The pause was deliberate for dramatic effects.

“He said…” Terry sounded serious as ever. “Yours is the most valuable.”

“Ugh!” I nearly choked on my sandwich.

“Terry!” I held it in for a while until eventually, I gave up on life. “Is your dad’s eyesight failing him?”

Even after a hearty laugh, the amusement lingered in Terry’s tone. “He said the artwork contains an invaluable heart of gold.”

Heart of gold?

Invaluable?

I stared down at my washed-out old T-shirt, then at my bare-bones rental. The only appliance of value was my dying crappy phone.

The sheer despair and absurdity overtook my every being.

I had been cautious to hide my sad lifestyle during our three months of online dating.

The last thing I wanted to do was bruise Terry’s ego stuck in an endless desk job.

I’d even been trying to figure out how to scrape together a few extra bucks to improve his quality of life.

What did that get me?

Terry had a Picasso on his wall, for goodness’ sake!

He even owned a chandelier that probably belonged to the Louvre!

As it turned out, I had been teaching a fish to swim, trying to save him from poverty.

Yet, I was the charity case here.

It was my life that needed fixing.

How was I supposed to date him now?

The distance between us wasn’t a gap anymore. It was the Mariana Trench stacked on top of Mount Everest!

“Um… You know, right? I don’t think I’ve turned off the stove. I should check on that.”

“Don’t hang up on me, Sam!”

My finger hovering over the red button went stiff.

“I’m sorry for keeping the truth from you,” he said earnestly. “I didn’t think it was necessary at first, but as time went on, I was afraid to scare you off.

‘Scared’ didn’t cut it.

My soul basically left my body.

“My family situation… is a little complicated.” He minced his words. “But I’m still the same Terry Rigsby, the guy who rants with you about the disgusting cafeteria food and the crowded subway, who loves your doodling, and who you make smile. That part has never changed.”

He paused, his voice a careful probe. “Can things go back the way they were?”

The way they were?

The shrill noise of a clearance sale blared through my window.

How could things be the same?

In the end, I simply murmured, “Sure.”

The world went quiet.

The silence was only broken by the noise from the street and my beating heart in my tiny rental.

That night, I didn’t sleep a wink.

I wondered if poverty restricted my imagination.

Terry could be some undercover billionaire, for all I knew.

No way was he some modest billionaire that existed only in the world of literature, right?

It was the most absurd thing ever.

I bet he worked at a high-end club or art gallery. The backdrop was just a set.

Yes, I must be right.

With what little dignity I had left as a working-class person, I convinced myself to believe my theory.

However, there was this tiny voice in my head.

What if he was telling the truth? What if he were a billionaire?

Where would that put me?

Come on, I was Samantha Horten, undefeated when it came to haggling at the market.

I couldn’t let this little thing beat me down.

All was equal in the face of love… right?

It was time that I met Terry in real life.

Yeah, that was right. We should meet.

Time to pull the curtains and see what he was really made of.

With that in mind, I had to swing into action.

I texted, “Are you asleep?”

Terry responded in no time, “Not yet. I was thinking about you.” He attached a head-rub emoji.

I messaged him, my fingers trembling slightly. “Um… I was just thinking… We’ve been dating for three months now. Maybe it’s time we met?” My heart was in my throat.

Terry replied with a string of exclamation marks.

He wrote, “Really, Sam? Are you finally agreeing to meeting?” He slapped an excited spinning emoji and a teary-eyed cat meme in between.

I replied, “Yes… Can we do it this weekend?”

Terry texted back, “Perfect! I’ll pick you up on the weekend. Send me your address.”

I messaged, “No, it’s okay. I’ll have your location, and I’ll make my way over.” It wasn’t as if I could show him where I lived. That’d be worse than being caught on video.”

Seconds later, an address popped up.

Terry wrote, “7 Maple Road, West Hills. Ring me when you arrive. I’ll come out to meet you.”

Maple Road in West Hills?

If I remembered correctly, it was the neighborhood for the ultra-rich.

I texted back, playing it cool, “Oh, West Hills. Got it.”

Setting the phone down, I slumped back into bed like a deflated balloon.

It was my cue to get a grip on myself. I couldn’t back down now. Oh, and I needed to get him a gift.

I couldn’t arrive empty-handed for sure.

The million-dollar question was what to give him.

I stared at the water spot on the ceiling while racking my brain.

Then, it struck me.

Farm-grown produce!

I could get him authentic local produce!

The produce was all-natural, pollution-free, green, organic, and still carrying a faint earthy scent of nostalgia.

It was the ultimate honest, simple, and down-to-earth gift.

The gift fit my bright, modest working girl persona. Sure, I must admit that I was barely keeping up with the act.

The idea seemed plausible the more I thought about it.

From under the bed, I pulled out two large sacks labelled “fertilizer”.

My mother brought these care packages home all the way from the countryside when she came to visit the last time.

One sack held potatoes, each one still dusted with fresh soil.

The other contained sweet potatoes that came straight from the ground.

“Beef stew with potatoes and roasted sweet potatoes. It’s simple, humble, and good for the soul. This should show how much I care!”

It was the first thing in the morning on a Saturday.

I put on my best outfit—a pair of washed-out jeans, a relatively new beige knit cardigan, and a pair of clean canvas shoes.

Standing at the mouth of the tight alleyway, I held two bulging fertilizer sacks, still smelling of earth, between me.

I whipped out my phone and opened the navigation app before punching in the mouthful of an address. “7 Maple Street, West Hills.”

Taking a deep breath, I trotted ahead on my journey with doomed determination.

It was a nightmare to take the bus during the morning rush.

My sacks of local produce were in everybody’s way, earning me eyerolls and disgruntled mumbles.

“Hey! Watch it! What is this so heavy?”

“Stop pushing! Go to the back! Go!”

“Are you seriously hauling sacks on the bus? Who does that anyway? Are you like, moving house?”

Keeping a smile on my face, I kept apologizing and moving out of the way.

This was all for love, or rather, truth. All I needed to do was suck it up.

The bus swayed back and forth. Just as I was nodding off, a notification came on my phone.

“You are approaching your destination at 7 Piggery, West Hills. Please be ready to disembark.”

I was taken aback.

7 Piggery?

I jolted awake, nearly falling out of my seat.

Clutching my phone, I stared at the screen with bulging eyes.

The GPS labelled my destination as a pigsty.

I wonder if my navigation system was glitching out.

Maybe Terry’s family was in the pig business.

It must be on a large scale to have its own address.

He could be the new-age swine prince.

I suppose that would make Terry more relatable next to a secret billionaire heir.

After all, farming, bringing home the bacon included, was the backbone of a strong economy.

I jumped into a rabbit hole of pig-farm heir romance fantasies.

The bus driver, his accent thick, called out, “The stop to the pig farm is here.”

Snapping out of dramas playing out in my mind, I scrambled out of the vehicle.

I looked around, dumbfounded.

Aside from a lonely bus stop sign, there was nothing else.

Dragging along two heavy sacks like a lost refugee, I stood in the middle of nowhere in a daze.

Just then, a black sports car pulled out right in front of me.

Lambo doors!

The door swung open vertically at the hinge.

Someone stepped out of the driver’s seat.

It wasn’t Terry, though.

A woman, possibly in her fifties, emerged with such grace.

“Hello there, are you Miss Samantha Horten?”

I was sweating out of my palms. “T-That’s me. Hello, ma’am! A-Are you in charge of the pigsty?”

The faint tremor in the elegant lady’s lips didn’t slip my notice when I mentioned whether she was responsible for the pig farm.

“Miss Horten, I believe you are mistaken. This is the estate on 7 Maple Street, West Hills.”

The car arrived at the stop.

The lady gave a nod. “Young Rigsby is expecting you. His instructions are to consult you in choosing the diamond ring for the engagement.”

Engagement? Diamond ring?

A vast, absurd sense of wealth disparity crashed down over me.

By my feet were two sacks of earthy and plain potatoes and sweet potatoes.

My eyes locked onto the inside of the iron gate.

A silhouette emerged from the estate.

It was Terry.

The face I’d come to know over months through the screen now stood under real sunlight. He was a lot more good-looking, defined, and… distant.

He approached with quick paces, the distance between us cutting short.

Then, the words just came out of my mouth. “U-Um… Ma’am! D-Do you think the potatoes are enough for stew?”