Chapter 1

My boyfriend of three years, Fitzgerald, asked me to be his nude model.

But as I shyly took off my clothes, I realized he was live-streaming it to the entire campus.

He did it just to humiliate me in front of everyone, all because I had snatched Chloe's title as the campus queen.

Unable to bear the insult, I ran to the rooftop, ready to jump. But Fitzgerald knelt down and begged me:

"I messed up! I'll spend my whole life making it up to you!"

I choked back tears and forgave him.

Yet, in the blink of an eye, he was selling my private shower photos online.

That was the moment I finally understood how utterly absurd my devotion these past few years had been.

I called Professor Dawson:

"I've made up my mind. I'm joining the research institute."

I stood in the shadows of the bar.

I watched Fitzgerald gulp down a drink, then lean in, pressing his lips to a woman's.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and soon they were entangled.

My hand clenched around the undelivered takeout order, my heart suddenly tightening in my chest.

Just then, someone nudged his arm and asked:

"Big spender tonight, huh? And I hear you're blowing all that money from his pathetic girlfriend. Aren't you afraid she'll find out?"

"She probably scrapes by with a hundred or two a day. You've blown what she earns in years, just tonight."

Fitzgerald scoffed, his finger still hooked under the woman's chin:

"So what if she finds out? She was so tough when she stole Chloe's campus queen title, she deserves a lesson. Besides, those shower photos of hers have been everywhere. Where's she gonna go without me now?"

"Pulling her back on the rooftop that day? That was just because I didn't want her dying on campus and causing trouble for you."

The person next to him chuckled:

"So why did you stay with her for so long?"

"She insisted on clinging to me." He flicked his cigarette ash.

"Who says no to a free maid? But honestly, she's so poor. Last time, I even saw her underwear drying, and it had a hole in it."

I didn't hear the rest of what he said.

My grip on the takeout bag tightened until my knuckles turned white.

"That person looks a bit like your girlfriend, actually."

Fitzgerald's head snapped up, a flicker of panic in his eyes before he remembered something:

"No way! She gave me all her money. She's probably riding her bicycle delivering takeout right now. How could she have any extra cash to get into a place like this? Keep the party going! We're not going home until we've spent all her money!"

It was already dawn by the time I returned to my dingy apartment, renting for $600 a month on the outskirts of the city.

I felt too drained to shower, picking up my misshapen bra and underwear.

To support him through the city's best music school, I worked three jobs a day. Mornings, I sold pastries at a breakfast shop.

At noon, I washed dishes at a restaurant, my hands chapped and bleeding from the dish soap.

The pain made it hard to hold my forks, so I'd wrap my fingers in bandages and keep washing. In the evenings, I delivered takeout.

Last month, he told me his teacher recommended private lessons that cost $12,000.

I gritted my teeth and pulled out all my savings.

Every dollar he carelessly tossed around last night was stained with the skin peeled from my hands.

I sank to the floor, defeated, tears streaming down my face. Fitzgerald, you truly are heartless.