Too Bad I Was Him

My parents set me up on a marriage match—and it turned out to be my girlfriend, Chloe.

I was hyped. I went straight to the luxury boutique where she worked, ready to tell her.

Then I stopped outside the VIP room.

"Chloe, if you're dumping him, just do it. Why fake cancer? You're putting bad juju on yourself."

"What do you know? A dead ex sticks forever. Next week, I'm getting engaged to a Remington. Having an ex like me? That's his win."

Inside, her friends hyped her up. Laughter all around.

I just stood there, cold spreading through me.

Three years. A joke to her.

She was trading up—and still playing me one last time.

I clenched my jaw and called my mom.

"Mom, cancel the engagement... No rush. I'll handle it myself."

I hung up, turned, and walked out. Ended up in a café, sitting there forever, until my phone buzzed.

Chloe.

[Babe, weren't you coming to help my sales today? I've been waiting forever. Still busy?]

Playful. Clingy.

I didn't answer. Just opened her profile.

Every post—me.

Three years together, and I never once questioned her "luxury sales" act.

She played it perfectly.

The day we met, she was in black. I figured she worked there and asked for a men's bag.

She didn't hesitate. Smooth. Professional.

We swapped contacts, and not long after, she started chasing me.

I told her I was a finance manager. Kept my real identity hidden. I didn't want her loving my money instead of me.

Turns out, we were both playing roles.

I caught feelings. She was killing time.

Guess I took too long to reply—my phone started ringing. Chloe.

The second I picked up, she sounded anxious. "Babe, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Working late. Can't make it."

I kept it calm, took a sip of coffee. Bitter.

"But I'm still one bag short this month... ugh..."

"I'll come later."

I cut her off. I already knew the script.

The disappointment flipped fast—gone, replaced with excitement. She said she'd wait for me at the store.

It played out like this every month. Chloe had it down to a science.

She knew I earned $10,000 a month, so she used me to hit her quota—she'd push a $9,000 bag, then tack on another $500 in "required" extras.

Ridiculous.

I never questioned it. Ten grand meant nothing to me. When she got paid, she sent back a fifth.

My "salary" just came back smaller.