The Girl He Dumped Turned Out to Be the Billionaire's Granddaughter

I glanced at the number. It was 600,000 dollars.

He even gave me an extra two thousand!

Stella hooked her arm through his and looked at me, saying, "Bridget, Jeremy is quite generous to you. He gave you exactly what you asked for. But from now on, you both belong to different worlds. I hope you won't make any negative remarks about Jeremy in front of anyone!"

Jeremy also looked at me, pursing his lips. "I don't want anyone to know that you and I were ever involved!"

I understood. He despised me and feared I'd tell the media he was my boyfriend.

Don't worry, I won't. After all, having such a heartless boyfriend wasn't something worth bragging about.

When Jeremy left and the onlookers dispersed, only my best friend, Wendy, stayed behind—still fuming.

"Bridget, are you an idiot? What can you do with 600,000 dollars? It can't even buy a single apartment!"

I looked at her with a pale face. "But he only owes me this much."

Liking him was my own choice. Taking care of him was, too. I'd just accept that I loved the wrong person.

Wendy sighed and poked my head with her finger, calling me an idiot all the way back.

When I got home, everything that belonged to Jeremy was gone. So was Stella's stuff.

It was like a storm had swept through, leaving a mess scattered across the floor for no one to clean up.

After setting up my stall all night, I'd even stopped by the hospital early this morning to pick up Jeremy's medicine. Now I lay collapsed on the sofa, too exhausted to move.

"Meow."

Melon crouched before me, tilting her head as she meowed. She was a stray cat I'd picked up from the street.

Forcing myself up, I fed her and tidied the room a little while I was at it.

In the evening, I set up my stall as usual.

Without Jeremy, my expenses were actually quite low. Six hundred thousand, at my current spending rate, was enough for me for some months.

But I wanted to buy a house, to have a home of my own.

Outside the university town, my barbecue stall was the most popular spot on the snack street and young college students loved my business.

That day, a man in a sharp suit suddenly appeared at my stall.

"Ma'am, give me five lamb skewers, ten skewers with fat," he ordered.

I'm used to serving young, energetic college students, but this was my first time serving someone so incredibly wealthy and successful.

I couldn't help but stare at him a few more times.

He was tall—probably around 188 or 189 cm— with an upright posture and a calm, distinguished elegance. Not to mention, he was strikingly handsome: high nose bridge, deep-set eyes and facial features so sculpted they almost gave off a Eurasian mixed-race vibe.

Parked near the alley entrance was a silver-grey Cayenne, lights still on, with a driver inside—probably waiting for him.

Having read countless romance novels, my mind instantly conjured up a cliché plot: an overbearing CEO buying grilled skewers for his pampered college wife.

So I grinned extra brightly. "Sure thing! For here or to go?"

I was certain it'd be to-go. I even grabbed a takeout container right away.

But the CEO-type said, "Here."

Then, completely ignoring my surprised expression, he casually found a seat and sat down.

He ordered about $ 300 worth of food in total. At that moment, I grilled while serving him skewers one after another.

By the time I was done, I was sweating profusely and he'd devoured it all in a flash.

"The grilling is good. How's your cooking?"

I was taken aback and pointed at myself. "Are you asking me? Well, I'm pretty decent. I even trained as a chef before starting this stall!"

Hearing that, the CEO immediately pulled a business card from his suit pocket and handed it to me.

"Are you interested in becoming my personal chef?"