My Broke Boyfriend Was a Secret Billionaire

The next morning, I bought the cheapest black coffee on Lexington Avenue.

"No oat milk?" the barista asked. "No vanilla?"

"My boyfriend just spent two hundred dollars on me," I said. "I'm in a season of sacrifice."

She gave me a look like I'd confessed to a crime. I didn't care. No lattes for a week. That was the deal I'd made with myself somewhere between the subway and the coffee line.

The watch slid against my wrist bone the whole ride up to the fourteenth floor.

---

"Okay, *what* is that?"

Priya from accounting grabbed my hand before I'd even put my bag down.

"Birthday present." I turned my wrist so the diamonds caught the office lights. "From Ethan."

"Claire. It's gorgeous."

"It's not expensive," I said, already grinning. "But I love it."

Two more girls drifted over. Someone said *stunning*. Someone said *your man has taste*. I gave my wrist a little shake, like a showgirl.

Then the air changed.

Perfume hit me first. Heavy, sweet, like someone had set a rose garden on fire. I honestly wondered if Vanessa had climbed into the bottle and bathed in it.

Her stilettos stabbed the carpet all the way to my desk.

"Let me see."

She didn't ask. She just took my wrist and turned it. Her nails were long and pink and sharp. Her eyes narrowed at the dial.

"Huh," she said.

Then she pulled out her phone. Typed. Scrolled. Turned the screen toward the whole room.

A photo. Same silver band. Same tiny ring of stars around the face.

*Maison Lavelle — Étoile. Limited Edition. $380,000.*

Somebody gasped. Priya's hand dropped off my arm.

"Three hundred and eighty thousand," Vanessa said, loud and slow, like she was reading to a kindergarten class. "Claire, sweetie. Do you know you're wearing a fake?"

The office went silent. Even the copy machine seemed to stop.

"Your boyfriend's startup," she went on. "How many years has it been failing? Five? He couldn't buy the real one if he sold every organ in his body."

Every eye in the room landed on me.

I glanced down at the watch. Then back at her. I nodded, very seriously.

"Of course it's fake. Ethan said it cost two hundred dollars." I held my wrist out to her. "What, are you going to call the cops and have my watch arrested?"

Someone by the printer snorted. Then someone else lost it completely.

Vanessa's red mouth went flat.

"God, you're so *small-time*. You really haven't seen anything of the world, have you?"

"Nope," I said cheerfully. "I'm broke. Totally broke."

I leaned back in my chair and smiled at her.

"But at least my boyfriend doesn't buy me presents and then take another girl to a hotel."

Her eyebrows twitched.

"Oh—speaking of." I tapped my chin. "Last Friday? Parking garage? Brandon had his arm around two girls at once. One on each side. Very balanced. Very efficient."

Vanessa's face went from pink to a sort of pale, sick green.

"You don't know what you saw."

"I know what I saw. One was blonde. The other had a really cute bag."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then she spun around and stormed off, leaving a cloud of perfume behind her like a smoke bomb.

I turned back to my computer and opened my spreadsheet.

I hummed the whole afternoon.

---

At six, Brandon's red convertible was purring at the curb outside our building. Top down. Sunglasses on. Vanessa slid into the passenger seat like she was filming a commercial.

Then Ethan's Honda rattled up right behind them.

The paint on the hood was peeling in strips. The muffler made a noise like an old man clearing his throat.

Vanessa twisted around in her seat and laughed.

"Oh my God. Can that thing even make it back to Brooklyn?" She waved her phone at us. "Want me to call you a tow truck? My treat."

Brandon smirked over his sunglasses.

I rolled my eyes so hard it almost hurt. Then I yanked open the passenger door.

The smell hit me before I even sat down. Hot, salty, greasy, perfect.

A paper bag sat on the seat. Fried chicken. A carton of fries, still steaming.

"Ethan."

"You said you were craving it on Tuesday," he said. "I listen."

Just like that, I forgot Vanessa existed.

---

Manhattan at rush hour was a parking lot. Taxis honked. Somebody screamed at a bus. Two blocks down, the red convertible sat frozen in a wall of cars, going nowhere.

Ethan cut the wheel left. Then right. Then into a narrow side street I'd never noticed in three years of working here.

"How do you know this road?"

"I know every road."

"That's not an answer."

"It's a very good answer."

The side street spat us out right next to Brandon's bumper. Close enough to touch.

I rolled down my window. I couldn't help myself.

"Vanessa!" I waved a french fry at her. "Enjoy your traffic!"

Her mouth fell open. Brandon slammed his palm on the horn.

We were already gone.

Ethan's shoulders were shaking. He wasn't making a sound, but his whole body was laughing. He reached over and messed up my hair with one big hand.

"You're terrible."

"I'm *delightful*."

"You're a little demon."

"A little demon with fried chicken." I bit into a fry and sighed. "You know what? There are only two kinds of people I really hate in this world."

"Yeah?"

"Number one. Rich jerks who use their money to push people around." I held up a second fry like a finger. "Number two. Liars. People who lie straight to your face."

The brakes hit. Hard.

My body jerked forward. The fry went straight into my nostril.

"*Ethan!*" I pulled it out and glared at him. "What was that? Is the car dying again?"

He didn't answer right away. His knuckles were white on the wheel. His jaw worked once, like he was chewing something.

Then he shrugged. Easy. Normal.

"There was a cat."

I turned and looked out the window. The sidewalk. The street. Under the parked cars.

Not a cat. Not even a single cat hair.

"What cat?"

"It ran."

"Fast cat."

"Very fast," he said, and started driving again.

---

That night, the light in our kitchen finally died for good.

Ethan dragged a chair under it and climbed up with a new bulb. I stood below him, holding the old one, staring up at the strip of stomach that showed when his shirt rode up.

Five years. Five years of pasta and broken fans and that stupid Honda.

The words came out before I could stop them.

"Ethan. When are we getting married?"

His hand jerked. The bulb slipped out of his fingers.

He caught it an inch from the floor, almost falling off the chair doing it.

Then he just stood there. Frozen. Looking at me like I'd pulled a knife.

Something in my chest sank. Quietly. Like a stone in a pond.

I forced a laugh.

"Relax. I don't want a diamond. You can get me a twenty-dollar ring from Key Food. I'll still say yes."

He climbed down slowly. He set the bulb on the table. He looked at me for a long time, and his voice came out low and rough.

"I need a little time, Claire. To get ready. To do it right."

*Money*, I thought. Of course. He was scared about money.

My heart went soft as melted butter. I stepped in and wrapped my arms around his waist and pressed my face into his chest.

"Hey. I can wait," I said. "I'm good at waiting."

His arms tightened around me. Too tight. Like he was holding on to something.

What I didn't see was his phone on the table behind me.

The screen lit up.

*Mr. Whitmore, this is the Office of the Board Secretary, Whitmore Holdings. The board is waiting for your confirmation on next week's acquisition.*