I Paid Off My Boyfriend's Debt, Then He Betrayed Me

I worked three jobs to pay off my boyfriend Deacon Foster's debts after his failed investment. One day, while rushing to deliver food, dusty and exhausted, I spotted him in the car, laughing with his friend, Daphne Collins. They were far too close. He caught sight of me, his face twisting in disgust.

"Look at her," he sneered, his hand gripping Daphne's waist, "She reeks of sweat every day, then asks if I love her. It's pathetic. I'm sick of it."

When I got home later that day, I found lace underwear and unused condoms tossed carelessly in the car.

But I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell. I quietly packed my things, my heart numb, and called my parents.

"Mom, Dad," I said softly, "I was wrong. I think it's time to study abroad and start living for myself."

——

When I came up from the garage, Deacon had just finished his meal and was getting up from the table. His eyes were glued to his phone, a faint, affectionate smile occasionally playing on his lips. He didn’t even glance my way as he walked past, but he stopped mid-step, his voice casual and dismissive.

"I’m done eating. Make sure to clean up. You’re out all day, and the house is a mess. How can I even think about marrying you if this is how you are?"

In the past, I would’ve mumbled an apology, hurried to clean up, desperate to avoid conflict. But this time, I stood still. I didn’t speak, didn’t rush to obey.

He finally looked up, startled, a flicker of surprise crossing his face as he realized I wasn’t moving to his tune anymore.

He glanced down and noticed the scars on my hands, his brow furrowing slightly. "Where have you been? Clean yourself up. You look terrible."

It was always like this—nothing I did was ever good enough for him. In his eyes, I was useless.

I stared at him, at the man I had once loved. His fingers never stopped swiping across his phone screen, completely engrossed. From where I stood, I could see the chat logs filled with lively conversations—flirtatious, easy, and full of life.

My gaze shifted to my own hands, the fingers scarred and worn from working endlessly for him. Then I thought about our conversations—if they could even be called that. Most were just me talking to myself, sending messages that went ignored.

Except when I transferred money or handed over my paycheck. Those were the only times he bothered to reply, indulging me with short, transactional words like a reward for my effort.

I felt a bitter smile tug at my lips.

Doesn't he know where I’ve been? Every day, I work three jobs just to pay off his debts. When I get home at night, I’m so exhausted I can barely stand, but I still clean, cook, and keep the house in order. My body aches, my heart hurts, but my face remains calm.

"Yes," I answered quietly, my voice steady.

Deacon sneered, as if my compliance was expected. He strolled past me, still absorbed in his phone, knowing all too well that no matter how far he pushed, I wouldn’t leave him. He had no reason to believe otherwise.

Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he stopped. "By the way, you've worked hard lately," he said casually. "I was out today and bought you your favorite mutton. It’s on the table. You can heat it up later."

I looked at him, a deep ache settling in my chest. "Deacon," I said quietly, "I don’t like mutton. I’m allergic to it."

The words seemed to echo in the sudden silence that followed. He froze mid-type, his expression faltering, embarrassment flickering across his face. His mouth opened, but he seemed unsure of what to say.

I raised my eyes to meet his, my voice soft, trembling slightly with weakness. "I’m allergic to mutton. So... who loves mutton?"

It felt like I was asking him, but in truth, I was asking myself. The sour ache in my chest tightened, and tears threatened to spill. I stared at him, my gaze fixed, hoping—desperately—for an answer that would make sense of it all.

Deacon paused for a moment, then shrugged with cold indifference. "If you’re allergic, just throw it away."