Chapter 3

I walked back into our SoHo loft, the key feeling alien in my hand. The space I' d loved, the home I thought we were building, now felt like a stage set. A very expensive, beautifully decorated lie. Every piece of furniture, every book on the shelf, seemed to mock me.

He arrived an hour later, feigning exhaustion from his "long drive" back from his fictional aunt' s house.

"Hey, babe. I' m so beat," he said, dropping his keys on the counter. He tried to wrap his arms around me from behind, but I stiffened and stepped away.

He didn' t seem to notice. He was too busy playing his part.

"I brought you something," he said, a proud smile on his face. He held up a small, grease-stained paper bag. "I know how much you love these. I spent my last few dollars on them."

Inside were artisanal pastries and a small coffee. The complimentary refreshments from the Hamptons open house. The same ones I had watched him ignore while he gifted away a mansion.

The audacity of it was breathtaking. He was trying to buy my affection with free snacks, performing his role as the poor, devoted boyfriend. A cold laugh escaped my lips. It sounded harsh and unfamiliar even to me.

"Something funny?" he asked, his smile faltering.

"The rent is crippling me, Ethan," I said, my voice flat. I needed to see how far he would take this. "I don' t think we can afford this place anymore. I was looking at apartments in Queens today."

He scoffed, a dismissive, arrogant sound I' d never heard from him before. It was the real him, slipping through the cracks of his persona.

"Don' t be so dramatic, Gabi. We' ll be fine. We should just stay."

He walked out onto the balcony, pulling out his phone. He thought I couldn' t see him, but his reflection was perfectly clear in the glass door. I watched him type a quick text.

Less than a minute later, my phone pinged with a new email.

It was from the "property management company."

Subject: Rent Adjustment for your SoHo Loft

The email offered a significant, immediate rent reduction, citing a "clerical error" in our original lease. The manipulation was so blatant, so insulting, it stole my breath. He owned the building. He was my landlord. He had just lowered my rent with a text message to make my financial concerns disappear, to keep me trapped in his playhouse.

He walked back in, a smug, self-satisfied look on his face. "See? Told you things would work out."

That was it. The final piece.

I looked straight at him, the email still glowing on my phone screen.

"The Hamptons were beautiful today, weren' t they?"

His face went blank. The color drained from it.

"What are you talking about?"

"The open house. The one for the Sandpiper Beachfront property. The one you gave away to that model." I held up my phone, showing him the Google search results, his face smiling back from a dozen high-society blogs.

"Was it fun, Mr. Lester?" I asked, my voice dripping with ice. "Was it fun playing poor with me?"