Chapter 1: The Heiress in Converse

My ex-girlfriend, Lillian, still gets under my skin. She’s one of those trust fund kids—overflowing with cash, like her whole life came with a platinum card and zero spending limit.

Honestly, sometimes it feels like the universe is messing with me. She’s the kind of person who probably never looked at a price tag, but then would flip out about splitting a five-dollar Uber, or act like rationing ketchup was an Olympic sport. She’d hoard those ketchup packets like they were gold coins, stuffing them into the junk drawer next to my expired coupons.

But back when we were together, she always played the part of the broke girl. Three years of eating my food, crashing in my apartment, wearing the ten-pack underwear I grabbed from a Walmart group deal for $9.99. I didn’t mind at the time—she made it seem like we were in it together.

I used to tease her, saying she could stretch a dollar further than anyone. She’d crack up, acting like it was a badge of honor. We’d hit up clearance racks, grab the Sunday paper for coupons, and make instant ramen a staple of our date nights. Looking back, it’s actually hilarious—the billionaire heiress slumming it like a broke college kid, stealing my last cup of coffee and mooching my Netflix password.

I always thought she was a struggling campus beauty, orphaned, hustling for her next meal. Turns out, she was a pampered princess just sampling the simple life—used to steak dinners, but craving boxed mac and cheese and greasy takeout pizza for the hell of it.

Sometimes, I wonder if her chipped nail polish and scuffed-up Converse were just costumes. Maybe I was a footnote in her billionaire memoir—a quirky detour before she went back to her country club world.

1.

I clicked on the trending video. There she was—a woman lounging against a luxury car, flashing the camera a sly, knowing smile. Some guy behind the phone was losing his mind, his excited shouts echoing on the audio.

It looked straight out of an L.A. influencer’s feed—palm trees, California sun bouncing off a silver Mercedes. The way she draped herself across the hood, all cool confidence, you’d swear she owned the city.

“She looked at me! She’s seriously gorgeous!”

It was only twelve seconds long, but I watched it over and over, each time my chest tightening a little more. I wondered if she’d ever remember the nights we spent eating instant ramen in my shoebox kitchen, or if that was just a footnote in her billionaire memoir. Each replay felt like watching someone I used to know turn into a stranger in real time.

It went viral overnight, headline blaring: #NatalieJames spotted with new face—suspected romance exposed.

Seeing her plastered all over Twitter and Instagram was surreal. Hashtags piled up, gossip blogs dissected every frame like it was Watergate. Even people I hadn’t heard from since freshman year were blowing up my phone.

Natalie James, the new movie queen, a CEO, and Hollywood’s favorite wild card. Thirty, single, always down to answer the messy questions, and every new boyfriend was younger and hotter than the last.

Everybody loves to talk about Natalie. Even my mom gets in on it, folding laundry in front of Access Hollywood. There’s just something about her—like you could split fries with her at a dive bar and swap stories all night.

Every time she has a new fling, people joke about wanting her to teach a class on being a player. Some say if you’re not dating Natalie James by eighteen, you’ve already missed your window.

Her love life is basically its own reality show. Fans post memes, spin wild theories—she just shrugs, feeding the fire.

When the video first blew up, my best friend Derek sent it to me right away.

“Bro, this girl looks just like Lillian. What’s going on? You so broke you pushed her into showbiz to get famous?”

That’s Derek—never misses a chance to roast me. I could practically hear his cackle through the phone.

I hadn’t even answered before he followed up: “Dude, it’s not just similar—it IS Lillian! Go check trending now.”

That electric jolt when you realize your private life just got tossed to the wolves? That’s what I felt. I hit trending topics, hands shaking.

There she was, right at the top.

My heart dropped into my stomach. I never thought some clickbait celebrity gossip would have my life doing backflips.

At first, everyone online spun their own story: Lillian was a freshman at Savannah School of Performing Arts, chasing Natalie James for fame and a ticket to Hollywood.

The internet loves a rags-to-riches fantasy. For a second, I almost bought it—Lillian hustling for her shot in L.A.

But then, someone else called BS. Claimed Lillian was actually the campus queen at Maple Heights University, just an average kid working part-time to pay for school. They even posted a student ID as proof, saying she probably met Natalie James for the money.

It was a digital game of telephone—old college Facebook photos, wild arguments in the comments, everyone acting like they knew the real story.

Then, just as fast, that version got blown up too.

Some internet sleuth dug up the truth: Lillian was actually the little princess of Westgate Holdings, only daughter of Richard Carter, CEO.

It felt like a bomb dropped in the middle of my life. It was like finding out your favorite indie band had been backed by a record label all along. The girl who begged me to Venmo her for coffee was heir to a fortune big enough to buy the city. Suddenly, all those late-night talks about money, her coupon scavenging, felt like performance art.

Not just rich—filthy rich. She kept a low profile, worked part-time for kicks, and apparently, Natalie James was her childhood idol. She’d chased her for five years, no luck—until now.

The comments were wild—some rooting for her, some just along for the ride. “This is some Netflix-level stuff,” someone wrote. No arguments here.

Lillian made her big entrance because Natalie was getting bullied by the event organizers. She showed up in a luxury car, swooped in to back up her idol—the kind of thing you’d see in a rom-com, only I was watching from my laptop, shrinking with every new like.

Natalie James didn’t push her away. In fact, the way she let Lillian stay by her side was basically a public confession.

Comment sections lost their minds. Fans, haters, and randos all speculating, resharing, dissecting every moment.

Then, a new photo started trending.

Lillian’s eyes were sharp as she squared off with a short, round, middle-aged woman.

It looked like a magazine shot—Lillian standing tall, chin up, pure business. Nothing like the girl who used to dance barefoot in my kitchen.

Natalie James was there too, usually all cool and untouchable, but now standing behind Lillian, her gaze soft and almost protective.

There was something so intimate in that look—like the world had faded away. For a second, I wondered if I’d ever really known Lillian at all.

Even blurry, the photo told a story: “Gorgeous, devoted heiress X dazzling player—celebrity falls.”

Hashtags piled up by the thousands. Their names were everywhere. My old life, viral, with strangers turning it into a soap opera.

Meanwhile, my Messenger chat with Lillian was still stuck on last night.

I scrolled up, re-reading the last thing she sent: “So tired, I miss you. Can we have pizza tomorrow?”

What did I even say back?

Right. I replied, “Don’t work so hard. If your part-time job is wearing you out, just quit. I’ve got money—worst case, I’ll take care of you.”

Now, seeing those words, I wanted to crawl under a rock. I’d played the provider, the steady guy, not knowing I was just a background character in her real life.

Looking back, me pretending to be rich in front of Lillian is just hilarious. The Lillian in that video was dripping in brands I couldn’t name, wearing a watch worth more than my car.

It hit me like a punchline I never saw coming: I’d spent three years budgeting, sacrificing, trying to build a future for us, while she was living undercover in my world, just for kicks.

What was I pretending for? Four grand a month and a dream, and I thought I could keep up?

The Instagram link I sent her? Still unread. No “Seen” checkmark. I kept refreshing, torn between hope and dread.

I typed and deleted a dozen messages, but nothing felt right. It was like trying to write a cover letter for a job I knew I wasn’t getting.

I wanted to ask if she was really a rich heiress, what the hell was up with Natalie James, but every time I tried, I just froze. Did I even have the right anymore? Maybe I was just background in her new story.

Even with the whole world watching, I clung to hope. Maybe she’d explain, say it was all a misunderstanding. Maybe she lied because she had no choice.

Brains are funny—they’ll hold onto hope even when it’s the dumbest thing you could do.

Then, out of nowhere, she messaged first.

Just three words: “Let’s break up.”

I stared at the screen. My hands moved before my brain: “Why?”

“Had enough fun.”

Her answer hit like a bucket of ice water. I kept staring, convincing myself she was joking, tired, anything but serious.

“Oh. What about the stuff you left at my place?”

“Just toss it. It’s not worth anything anyway.”