I ended things with Cayson Martin, cold and resolute.

He apologized. Pleaded. Begged me to take him back.

He even brought the friend who’d accidentally blown our secret to apologize.

After God knows how many apologies, he looked lost for the first time. “Winifred, what do you want? Name it, and I’ll give it to you.”

I looked him straight in the eye. “Honesty. That’s everything.”

“Can you give me that, Cayson?”

Maybe I still had hope for us, so I showed him the way back to me. If he could give me honesty, I wouldn’t hesitate to forgive him. I loved him, after all.

But he only looked confused and dropped his gaze. “Let me think about it,” he said.

Before he could figure it out, life threw me into another crisis. My father had a stroke out of nowhere and landed in the ICU overnight. Our family’s savings melted into that emergency like snowflakes.

I worked nonstop just to keep us afloat, but the financial hole seemed bottomless.

When I was on the edge of despair, Cayson came to me. “Winifred, let me help. Okay?”

He was steady, reassuring. He arranged top doctors, transferred my father to a better hospital, covered every medical bill, and hired professional caregivers.

The day Dad was discharged, Cayson asked, “Winifred, can we get back together?”

I looked into his pleading eyes and said yes. Foolishly, I thought I’d finally secured his “honesty”—and I fell headlong into a relationship built on illusions.

I needed to know where he was, what he ate, who he was with. He indulged me. Our rugby friends joked that we were attached at the hip, but he’d just smile and say, “Yeah, I can never say no to her.”

I fell for his sweet talk.

Two years later, we graduated. By then, I was head over heels. Naturally, I assumed he’d propose at graduation.

Instead, all I got was one sentence: “Winifred, find something to keep you busy. Stop clinging to me all the time, okay?”

I felt humiliated. He knew his words stung, but his face showed zero apology. He just took my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Winifred, I have my own stuff to deal with. I can’t always put you first.”

“Be reasonable, okay?”

His words cut deep. From that day on, I knew I was the one with less power in our relationship. I thought about breaking up, but it wasn’t as simple as before—when I could just walk away without looking back.

The thought of losing him suffocated me. Love, I learned, was a seesaw. The more his affection faded, the more hopelessly mine grew.

I tried to be good. I texted him less and waited for him to reach out. Even when his family arranged a match for him, I couldn’t bring myself to confront him outright. He went along with it, but he always reassured me: “Just keeping the family happy. Don’t read too much into it, Winifred.”

He went to dinners and parties with other women, but none of them stayed by his side as long as I did.

I was so deluded that I even comforted myself: At least he loves me.

But that comfort never lasted. Without a marriage certificate, our relationship felt shaky. I was anxious every day.

At a loss, I stumbled on a social media post from one of his rugby friends: “Socialite Training Courses—guaranteed comprehensive curriculum.”

In the post, the friend wrote: “Who knew this program covered so much? Horseback riding, golf, piano, saxophone—even basic finance courses.”

“I might actually give it a whirl!”

Below, the comments teased him for his adventurous streak.

He replied, dead serious: “I genuinely think it’s worth it. And pretty reasonably priced. I heard GVRC’s equestrian classes alone cost $2,500 each now.”

“If Dad hadn’t shipped me off to Europe and I wasn’t stuck in New York, I’d seriously consider it!”

I got lost in the comments, my mind spinning.

Then I noticed a new like under the post.

It was Cayson.

My hand froze mid-scroll.

As if pulled by some unseen force, I clicked the course link.

During our first session, Nia Sanchez taught me one crucial lesson: “Never put all your love in men, and never expect sincere emotions from them. They’re the most unreliable thing out there.”

“Sure, men’s hearts can be real, but they have a talent for splitting into a million pieces. So what’s the point of pining after one tiny sliver?”

By the end of the first week, it happened to fall on my four-year anniversary with Cayson Martin. Anais Ryan, another girl in the program, egged me on: “Winifred, don’t be so naive! Remember when you thought your boyfriend was just some broke student handing you ten-dollar flowers and homemade honey cakes? It felt sweet because you couldn’t see the bigger picture!”

“Now that you know he’s got money, shouldn’t you get yourself some perks?”

I’d never done anything like that before, and it felt awkward. Anais, though, saw things differently. “Why hesitate? You’ve invested plenty in him too—your time, energy, youth. Aren’t those worth something?”

“Either walk away, or at least get something in return.”

I wasn’t ready to give up on Cayson. So, for the first time, I asked him for a $7,000 handbag. That night, my mind raced, and sleep wouldn’t come.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Cayson must have thought I was asleep. He slipped out onto the balcony to make a call. Maybe it was the late hour, but I caught a flicker of uncertainty in the way he stood.

Before I could dwell on that fleeting look, his words cut straight through me. “That training program really does the trick. She’s not as clingy, and all she asked for was a $7,000 bag.”

“If she were completely genuine and wanted nothing, I’d feel bad for stringing her along.”

“But breaking up? That’s not something I’m ready to deal with. Having her around is comforting.”

“Now I throw some money her way, and she stays calm. It’s working, wouldn’t you say?”

Maybe whoever was on the other end agreed, because Cayson smiled faintly, ended the call, and headed back inside.

Instinctively, I shut my eyes.

When the mattress dipped beside me, my heart sank to its lowest point. For the first time, resentment stung me toward the man I’d cherished for so long.

Once that door opened, things spiraled out of control. If his sincerity was cheap, then I’d take other valuables from him—designer handbags, jewelry, a house in the exclusive Bel Air Estates, even limited-edition cars.

His treatment of me grew increasingly detached. As if any slight could be smoothed over with money.

At first, he might have faltered, but as time went on, it became second nature. When I caught him meeting with a girl his family introduced him to, he stopped making excuses. Instead, the next day, I’d find a six-figure gift waiting for me.

Sometimes, when things went wrong in the bedroom, he didn’t apologize. He’d just win me over with a car.

I invested less and less emotion in him as the training program consumed more of my focus. Horse riding, piano, dance. Social skills, finance, etiquette.

There was so much to learn that I nearly forgot why I’d started it all in the first place.

Yet a voice inside me persisted: This isn’t right, Winifred. It shouldn’t be like this.

When the final session ended, Anais asked, “Winifred, the course is over. If you haven’t won your man over, maybe it’s time to consider someone else? I know some great people.”

I shook my head and, for the first time, decided to break the course’s rule that “a woman should never propose.” I took a bold step to redefine my relationship with Cayson: “No. I’ve decided to propose to him.”