Three years after breaking up with my ex-girlfriend, she dragged me to court. She wanted me to pay back everything she spent during our relationship. It wasn’t about the money—her husband was just bored and thought it’d be amusing. She knew I was in poor health. She knew I struggled with depression after losing my parents in a car accident and relied on medication to sleep. She knew I’d attempted suicide once and ended up in the hospital, even receiving a critical condition notice. And yet, she did it anyway. In court, I looked at her face—familiar yet distant. I’d known her for seven years. We dated for five. Later, she went to study in the U.S. Through the hardest times, I never thought about giving up on us. Los Angeles was so far, but I flew back and forth a dozen times. The court ruled that I had to repay $15,023. The extra $23? It came from the time I wanted to buy candied fruit on the streets of Chinatown in Los Angeles. It cost $3 per stick. I couldn’t bring myself to spend the money, but she smiled and bought it for me. Now that small, sweet gesture had turned into a blade at my throat. What she didn’t know was that the $15,000 in my bank account was everything I had—money meant for my next cancer treatment. Content
After the court ruling, I ran into Valerie Morgan in the hallway. It had been years since I’d last seen her. She’d changed so much. The struggling student I’d known, working odd jobs in a cramped apartment while trying to launch her career, was now a CEO in the renewable energy sector. She stood there in a cream sweater, her gaze cold and distant as it landed on me. Instinctively, I froze, thinking I could just avoid her and walk past. But then she spoke, her words slow and deliberate: “Do you regret it now?” I hesitated, startled. “What?” I replied. A mocking smile tugged at her lips. “Leaving me for money. You must regret it now, don’t you?” The chill of the late autumn breeze crept into my bones. I clenched my fingers against the cold but still felt its sting. After a moment, I took a deep breath and offered her a perfect, practiced smile. “Miss Morgan, the money’s been repaid, and we’re done. Saying things like that—aren’t you afraid your husband might misunderstand?” I turned my head to find Brian Chambers standing there, his face dark with anger. He quickly masked it with a smile, smoothing over the last traces of venom. Brian strolled over, casually draping an arm around Valerie’s shoulders. “Babe, how should we spend that $15,000? Clothes? Shoes? Or maybe that model I had my eye on last week?” He gave me a pointed look, smirking. “Doesn’t seem like enough, though, does it? You should’ve been more generous with your ex, Valerie. That’s barely enough for a new pair of shoes.” Valerie leaned into him, laughing softly. “It’s fine, honey. Think of it as pocket money. If you need more, I’ll cover it.” Brian’s grin widened as he kissed her cheek. “Babe, you’re the best.” Then he turned back to me, all false cheer. “Ethan, I’m really sorry about this. We don’t actually need the money. Valerie and I just had a little bet, and she wanted to cheer me up, so…” He reached out, gripping my hand with a smug, almost gloating look in his eyes. “Thanks for making me so happy—and for showing me just how much my wife loves me.” My chest tightened, a dull ache spreading through me like needles under my skin. I watched them walk away, hand in hand. Valerie would never know. The money she’d used to buy Brian his new shoes was meant to save my life.
I dragged my battered body home. The tiny trailer at the edge of Rustwood, West Virginia, shook with every gust of wind, the sharp clash of metal sheets robbing me of sleep on stormy nights. Summers were worse—an oven with no air conditioning, where I’d collapsed from heatstroke more than once because I couldn’t afford the electricity bill. I never thought Valerie would find me again. But I never imagined our next meeting would be in court. I stared at the newspaper clippings on my wall, then began tearing them down one by one. Each article bore her picture: Valerie Morgan, the rising star of the renewable energy industry; Valerie Morgan, one of New York City’s Top 10 Women Entrepreneurs; Valerie Morgan, radiant at her lavish wedding to Brian Chambers. I swallowed hard, stuffing the crumpled pages into a box beneath my bed. At the bottom of the box was a photo of us—a younger, softer Valerie leaning against me, her shy, radiant smile brimming with hope. The woman in court had been a stranger. Cold. Unforgiving. She was a CEO now, a philanthropist, a beloved wife. Everything but my girlfriend. I laughed bitterly, shoving the photo into the box with the clippings. Then I picked up my phone and called the bar manager. “Put me on the night shift,” I said. At night, the bar drew wealthy women looking for entertainment. Their desires could be twisted, their wallets deep. It was degrading, but it paid well. And I needed the money. I needed to live. What I didn’t expect was to see Valerie there. She stood at the center of a crowd, the spotlight catching her elegant figure. My fingers clenched as my face burned. She saw me too. Her expression flickered—shock, disbelief—and then settled into mockery. “So, this is where you work now.” Sweat pooled in my palms, but I forced myself to stay composed. “Your drink, ma’am,” I said calmly. Her gaze was scornful, like she was watching a rat crawl out of the gutter. “Figures. Women who come here can set you up for life. Fits your style.” I took another deep breath. “Your drink, ma’am,” I repeated. She arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “How long have you been here? Don’t you know how to serve properly?” She pulled a checkbook from her purse, scribbled something, and dropped it at my feet. “Serve my friends well, and this is yours.” Pain shot through my knee as I bent down to pick it up. When I saw the amount—$15,023—my chest constricted, air squeezing from my lungs. It was the exact sum I’d paid her in court. She was using it to humiliate me. I straightened slowly, meeting her gaze. After a long silence, I spoke: “This is payment for my services, Miss Morgan. I assume… I won’t need to repay it?”
The doctor had told me I shouldn’t drink alcohol. But I had no choice—I needed the money. For years, just staying alive had cost me my dignity. I would do anything. What were a few bottles of alcohol compared to that? That night, Valerie’s friends came to the bar. Of course, they all knew our story. Three years ago, when Valerie was desperate, struggling to secure funding, on the verge of being driven to suicide by the banks, I left her. She’d searched for me like a madwoman, even getting into a car accident that landed her in the hospital. She begged me not to leave her, but I didn’t look back. These women hated me for it. They wanted to take revenge on my behalf. They didn’t hold back. I was so drunk I collapsed onto the table, nothing more than a puddle of humiliation. When I reached for another bottle, Valerie grabbed my wrist, fury etched into her features. “Will you really stoop this low for money?” I raised my head, dazed, and held out my hand like a beggar. “Valerie… the money. You said… if I drank, if I took care of your friends, you’d pay me. You said you wouldn’t take it back…” Her gaze softened for a fleeting moment, her eyes trailing to my wrist. Her fingers brushed the scars there. The reminders of my depression, the countless times I’d tried to end it all after my parents’ fatal car accident. It was Valerie who had pulled me back from the brink, holding me close, pleading: “Ethan, you still have me. Live, even if it’s just for me. Please.” Now, though, her touch withdrew like I was filth. She scoffed bitterly, her voice dripping with venom. “I did promise. But tell me—look at my friends. Have you satisfied them?” The room erupted into cruel laughter. Their eyes bore down on me as if I were a circus act, a clown there for their entertainment. I chuckled despite the stabbing pain in my stomach, forcing a smile as I said, “Then I’ll try again. I’ll keep going until you’re happy.” When I reached for the bottle again, Valerie snapped. Her foot shot out, flipping the table. The crash of shattering glass filled the room. I fell hard, shards of broken bottles slicing into my palms. Seconds later, Marcus burst into the room, rushing to my side. “Ethan! Are you okay?” he cried, pulling me into his arms. He turned on Valerie, his voice trembling with rage. “Valerie Morgan, are you even human? After everything Ethan’s done for you, you force him to drink like this?” He paused, his voice breaking. “He has stomach cancer. Do you know this could kill him?!”
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