I Sold Everything for My Fake-Broke Boyfriend, Then He Let Them Kill My Cat

Adrian came back into the room with damp hair and a new debt agreement. He’d written a number in the blank: ten million dollars. He placed it in front of me with both hands, like he was offering an apology instead of a lie. “Nina, I’m so sorry. I messed up again.” I looked at the watch peeking from beneath his sleeve. It was a limited-edition Patek Philippe I’d once seen in a magazine, priced at more than twenty million dollars. Adrian had told me his watch was a cheap fake. I’d believed him because I’d never had a reason not to. “You really can’t pay this?” I asked. His brows drew together. “I wouldn’t ask if I could.” The tablet chimed. A new message flashed across its screen. What’s she selling this time? The shop? The house? Then another: I call first night if she’s taking bids. Adrian glanced at the tablet, saw that I was looking at him, and turned it facedown. “Don’t read those idiots’ messages,” he said. “They don’t know what it’s like to lose everything.” For a moment I wanted to ask him why the men in that chat knew about my sacrifices. Why they knew I’d sold my grandmother’s house and emptied my mother’s account. Why he’d let them speak about me that way. Instead I asked, “Where’s your signature?” He blinked. “What?” “On the agreement. You signed it, but there’s no lender listed. No witness. No company name.” His expression changed so fast I almost missed it. Then he sighed and pulled me into his arms. “I was in a rush. The lender will fill in the rest. Nina, I know I’ve let you down, but this is the last time. Once I pay this off, I’ll marry you. I swear.” Three years earlier, after the first time I paid his debts, he’d promised to build us a home. After the second, he’d knelt on the floor and called my savings his wedding gift. Every promise had sounded sincere while he made it. “I’m out of money,” I said. He let go of me. “What?” “I can’t pay this.” Anger flashed across his face. “So that’s it? You think I’m a loser now?” “I think you’re asking me for money you don’t need.” His eyes narrowed. “I knew it. You’re just like the rest of them. You never believed in me.” He snatched up his jacket and slammed the door so hard the frame rattled. I didn’t follow him. I blocked his number, his social accounts, and every address he used to reach me. Then I looked at the paper again. The “loan” had no lender and no valid signature. I’d once trusted Adrian enough to sell a house for him. Now I couldn’t even trust a piece of paper he handed me. I called the broker who handled the shop’s lease. “Hi,” I said. “I want to transfer my flower shop on Harbor Street.” There was a brief pause. “I can help with the listing, but you’ll have to meet the landlord first.” “That’s fine.” I hung up and stared at the locked door. The shop had been my way of keeping Adrian afloat. Without him, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with it. But I knew I was leaving.

The next morning, I packed everything I owned into one suitcase. Our apartment was a small rental above a dry cleaner. The bedroom window faced a brick wall, the kitchen drawer stuck unless you lifted it, and the couch sagged in the middle. Adrian had always said there was no point fixing anything. We’d move somewhere better when he made it big. I’d believed him. I’d kept waiting for a future that never came. The first thing I found while packing was a paper ring he’d folded from a receipt. He’d given it to me after a long shift at the shop. I’d laughed and slipped it on, and he’d kissed my knuckles like it was a diamond. Later, I found a birthday card from a bakery, a smooth stone from the sidewalk, and a chipped mug he said he’d picked out just for me. They’d all felt like proof that he knew me. Now they looked like things he’d grabbed on the way home because he knew I’d be grateful for anything. I opened the group chat history on his tablet. I wanted to know how long the joke had been going on. I found more than five hundred messages calling me stupid. Nina ran across town to bring me soup. She’s so easy. She gave me her raincoat and walked home in a storm. What a fool. She still talks about our future like I’m going to marry her. One message had been sent the night I told Adrian I loved him. He’d typed it while I was asleep beside him. She’s broke and still thinks she’ll end up with me. I almost feel bad. I closed the tablet. The room seemed to shrink around me. My phone rang. The broker was calling back. “Nina, the landlord wants to handle the transfer himself,” he said. “He’ll be at his office at three. Can you make it?” I looked at the little pile of things I’d decided to keep: my mother’s recipe book, a framed photo of the two of us, and an old silver necklace. Everything else fit in the suitcase. “Yes,” I said. “I’ll be there.” The broker sounded surprised. “You don’t want to ask who owns the building first?” “Would it change anything?” “I guess not.” I left Adrian’s paper ring on the kitchen counter. Then I zipped my suitcase and carried it downstairs. At the door, I looked back once. I’d spent two years trying to make that apartment feel like a home. I’d hung paper stars above the bed and put fresh flowers in a jar on the windowsill. Adrian had called it temporary. He’d been right. It had never been my home.

Two days earlier, a woman had ordered nine hundred and ninety-nine roses from my shop. She’d asked me to leave every thorn on the stems. The delivery address was a private club downtown, and the note read: For the love of my life, Chloe. —A. I’d wrapped every rose myself. By the time I finished, my palms were red and dotted with tiny cuts. The order paid well, so I’d taken a cab to deliver it. Chloe Bennett had met me at the door in a silk dress and smiled at the flowers as if she’d expected them. When I got home, Adrian had kissed my scraped hands and told me he was proud of me for landing such a big order. I’d told him the delivery went to someone named Chloe. He’d only smiled. At three that afternoon, I reached the broker’s office. Through the glass wall of a conference room, I saw Adrian in a tailored suit. Chloe leaned against his shoulder, laughing at something on his phone. I stopped in the hallway. The man I’d thought had nothing was wearing a watch worth a fortune. The woman from the rose delivery was sitting beside him like she belonged there. I looked down at my bandaged hands and understood how carefully he’d arranged every part of the joke. The broker arrived and followed my gaze. “There you are, Ms. Hart. The landlord’s already here.” I stared at him. “Adrian owns the building?” “He owns the whole Harbor Street block. The Vale Group bought it years ago.” The broker opened the door. Adrian looked up. For a beat, the confident smile fell from his face. Chloe turned, saw me, then glanced at the bandage across my palm. Her expression shifted into something close to amusement. I couldn’t hear the room anymore. I could only see the nine hundred and ninety-nine roses, every thorn left in place because someone had asked for them that way. “Ms. Hart?” the broker said. “Do you still want to go in?” I swallowed. “No.” I walked toward the elevator. My legs shook, but I kept moving. The past three years came back all at once: the rent notices, the late-night knocks, the days I’d scraped together cash while Adrian told me he was trying to save us. And the night I’d called him, begging him to help my cat.