Chapter 3: Three Years For A Payout

The reason I started dating Carter in the first place? Pure shamelessness. It wasn’t romance. It was survival. It was theater.

Three years ago, my business partner and I started a gaming studio together. Two women, too many ideas, not enough runway—and a little family money in my pocket to keep the lights on.

Carter was one of the angel investors she brought in. He wore money like a cologne.

In the early days, facing the investors, my partner and I were as accommodating as possible—smiles wider than we felt, yes’s stacked like dominoes.

But I was even better at reading people, so I outdid her in being a doormat. I could interpret moods like weather and bend without breaking.

Carter misunderstood, thinking I was into him. He saw accommodation and read affection. He wasn’t the only one to make that mistake.

At a dinner once, I spent the whole night shielding Carter from drinks because he couldn’t hold his liquor. It was practical, and it kept the conversation on track.

On the way home, as he drove my partner and me back, he suddenly dropped a bomb—he loved a dramatic reveal.

“You’ve been chasing me for so long with no response. Isn’t it exhausting?” He didn’t whisper. He announced it, like he was giving a TED Talk.

I was tipsy and confused. “What?” I blinked, caught somewhere between sitcom and horror movie.

A red light. The car idled, holding its breath.

Carter turned to look at me, his stunning face full of unmistakable arrogance. He was beautiful, impossible—a dangerous cocktail.

“No need to be shy. Lots of people like me. Lots of people chase me.” The city lights carved his cheekbones into something sharp.

I realized instantly he’d misunderstood and tried to explain, but my partner’s warning grip pinched my waist—a sober little alarm bell.

“You’ve got it wro—” I didn’t get the sentence out.

My partner, a little drunk, pinched me hard. The message was clear: Carter was our investor. Money didn’t just talk—it silenced.

So, I swallowed my pride, the way women do when rent and payroll depend on it.

When he parked in the underground garage, he rested both hands on the steering wheel, dark hair falling carelessly across his forehead, sharp brows above deep-set eyes—he looked wild and carefree, the picture of a CEO who never worried about consequences.

Under the city lights, he let out a soft laugh and said, “You know I’ve dated a lot of women, and you know there’s someone I’ve always carried in my heart. I’ll never accept you, so just give up.” The laugh was amused, the words were merciful only in his mind. I heard: You’re not special. Move on.

I didn’t want to lose his investment, so I kept my mouth shut. Pride was expensive. Silence was cheap.

But that silence instantly turned me from a business partner in a workplace drama into the doormat in a trashy romance. One quiet moment, and my genre changed.

My partner wasn’t wrong. Carter had already rejected me, so why not just play along and keep sucking up to him? Keep the studio alive. Keep the checks coming.

But then, one day, Carter must’ve lost his mind—or got bored. Or both.

He announced—out of nowhere—that he was "accepting" my pursuit. Like he’d signed off on a merger.

My partner said, “Don’t worry, his longest relationship is three months. Plus, every ex gets a big breakup payout.” She said it like she was reading a weather report.

Thinking of Carter’s stunning face, those eight-pack abs, the huge breakup fee, and my parents constantly setting me up on blind dates… I stacked the pros and cons like slides in a pitch deck.

I admit I was tempted. I’m human, and I’m practical. Sometimes those two are on speaking terms.

Half-heartedly, I agreed to my partner’s dumb idea. I told myself I was being strategic, not foolish. Both were true.

But now, three years had gone by. The plan had outlived its shelf life.