Chapter 1: The Price of Coming Back

After Julian and I got back together, people around me wouldn’t let me forget how much I’d supposedly changed.

They’d point it out in that way only friends and nosy coworkers can—half-teasing, half-judging. My best friend would nudge me and say, “Look at you, all grown up now.” A coworker would smirk, “Did someone finally tame you?” It was like everyone had been waiting for me to spill the news, and now they were lining up to comment on how I was quieter, more polished, less likely to turn brunch into a soap opera. Even the barista at my usual coffee shop shot me a knowing look and said, “You seem...calmer these days.”

Honestly, I was kind of infamous for being dramatic. I’d scroll endlessly through his texts, practically glued to his side, and insist he check in with me about everything. My group chat had a running joke about how I could turn a missed call into a full-blown crisis.

Yeah, I was the queen of late-night overthinking and triple-texting. I’d blow up his phone if he didn’t answer—yeah, I know. Not my proudest moment. I’d convince myself he was out with someone else. I’d show up at his office just to see if he’d introduce me as his girlfriend. Looking back, I was exhausting—even to myself sometimes.

It didn’t hit me until the difference between our worlds smacked me in the face—until I saw how wide the gap between our social classes really was. It wasn’t just money; it was the way people looked at me when I was with him, the way I suddenly felt like I didn’t belong.

I remember the first time I went to one of his family’s charity galas. The place was a sea of designer gowns and tailored tuxes, the air thick with expensive perfume and the clink of crystal glasses. I wore a dress from Nordstrom Rack and felt like I had a neon sign over my head screaming IMPOSTER. The polite, practiced smiles from his mother’s friends stung worse than if they’d just told me to leave.

After that, I became his lover—obedient, agreeable, never daring to say I loved him. I got really good at swapping sweet talk for gifts, biting back my real feelings in exchange for a new handbag or a dinner at some place I couldn’t pronounce.

It was a different kind of performance. Instead of demanding attention, I learned to listen, to nod, to laugh at the right moments. I became the perfect plus-one: pretty, quiet, grateful. Honestly, I was a walking, talking accessory. I stopped asking for anything that sounded like love, and instead, I just accepted the expensive gifts and kept my real feelings zipped up tight.

But then, out of nowhere, he held my hand and asked me why I didn’t love him anymore.

His fingers were warm, his voice low. For a second, there was a softness there—a vulnerability I’d never seen in Julian. For just a moment, I almost believed he actually wanted the truth.

When I found myself back in Julian’s orbit, I was at a downtown Chicago bar, drinking with investors. The investment had tanked, so I got chewed out, forced to smile while I downed whiskey after whiskey, my pride shrinking with every glass.

It was one of those bars with exposed brick and Edison bulbs, all that faux warmth and overpriced cocktails. The whiskey burned, but I barely tasted it after the second round. The laughter from the other tables just felt like background noise—a soundtrack to my humiliation. It was the kind of place that made you feel like you belonged—until you realized you didn’t.

I rushed to the ladies’ room, stuck my finger down my throat to make myself throw up. My throat burned, my eyes stung and watered, and for a second all I could taste was regret and bile.

The mirror was foggy, mascara smudged beneath my eyes. My hands shook as I gripped the edge of the sink, willing myself to pull it together. I could hear the muffled bass from the bar and the click of high heels on tile. God, I looked like hell.

That’s when I met Julian’s gaze.

He was standing in the hallway, just outside the restroom, like he’d been waiting for me. He looked exactly the same—impeccably dressed, hair perfect, that cool confidence that made people part for him like he was royalty. I blinked, not sure if I was seeing things or just drunk enough to hallucinate.

He walked through the crowd like he owned the place, always the center of attention, never lacking admirers. It was like the world bent to make room for him, and he didn’t even have to try.

People glanced up as he passed, some trying to catch his eye, others whispering his name. Julian Hayes. The guy everyone wanted on their side. I felt invisible. Just another face in the crowd.

Through my haze, his eyes swept over me—casual, indifferent, like he was looking at something he’d already thrown away. My stomach twisted.

I tried to hold his gaze, but I felt exposed, like every insecurity was suddenly on display. I wanted to say something, anything, but my throat was tight. He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. Just looked through me, like I was someone he’d already forgotten.

I remembered when we broke up, I’d stomped my foot and yelled, “So what if you’re rich?!” God, I must have looked ridiculous.

I’d meant it, too—back then, my pride was all I had left. I wanted to hurt him, to make him feel small for once. But now, standing in that hallway, all I felt was the sting of my own naïveté.

Now, after being knocked down by life a hundred times, I finally got it—turns out, being rich actually means something.

It means you get second chances. It means people forgive your mistakes. It means you don’t have to clean up your own messes, because someone else will do it for you. I hated how much I envied that. Bitter pill to swallow.

After the breakup, I ended up in this mess—mascara running, dignity gone, and my ex saw it all firsthand.

There was no hiding from him. He saw the run in my tights, the desperation in my eyes, the way I tried to act like I still had it all together. I wanted to disappear.

When I pushed open the private room door again, the investor who’d just been tearing me apart was suddenly all smiles, calling him Mr. Hayes. The whiplash almost gave me a headache.

The whole mood in the room flipped. The investor who’d been berating me minutes before turned syrupy-sweet, his smile fake as plastic. It was like watching a bad actor switch scripts mid-scene, and I almost laughed.

The investor reached out to shake his hand, but Julian ignored him, leaving the guy hanging. The air got awkward fast, and I felt my lips twitch.

You could practically hear the record scratch. The investor’s hand hovered, then dropped. I felt a perverse sense of satisfaction watching him squirm.

The investor was the big shot, but Julian was the guy behind the big shot. I couldn’t afford to piss off either, so I played the middleman, all smiles.

I slipped into my most diplomatic voice, grinning like nothing was wrong. “Let’s all relax. We’re here to do business, right?” Sweat prickled at the back of my neck. I prayed no one noticed.

“Sorry, sorry, I failed to recognize greatness. I didn’t realize Mr. Hayes was here. I’ll take three shots as an apology.”

He poured himself three shots, knocking them back one after another. The bravado was almost comical. I forced a laugh, just to keep things moving.

The whiskey burned going down, the heat in my chest pushing back the bitterness for a second. I swallowed hard, blinking away tears I’d never let them see.

Every swallow felt like punishment. I could taste the bitterness in my throat, but I kept my face smooth, like none of this touched me.

The investor’s face softened a bit, and he pulled his hand back. Relief flickered in his eyes, and I almost pitied him.

He seemed relieved the awkwardness was over. I shot him a quick, reassuring nod, silently promising to keep things chill. At least for now.

Julian looked right at me and asked how much money I still needed. No small talk, just straight to the point.

His voice cut through the chatter like a knife. No pleasantries, no fake warmth. That was Julian—always straight to business. My pulse skipped a beat.

At this point, my company was already on the edge of bankruptcy. Startups burn cash fast. I felt my heart lurch—was this hope?

For the first time all night, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this was the lifeline I’d been waiting for. Don’t get your hopes up, I warned myself, but I couldn’t help it.

Right there at the table, Julian waved his hand and signed the investment agreement. No hesitation. The pen glided over the paper. Just like that, my company had a second chance. My hands shook as I watched him sign.

“Seems like I don’t have your contact info yet. From now on, report the company’s operations to me directly.”

His tone was all business, but there was something else underneath—ownership, maybe. I bristled, but I kept my face neutral.

He capped his pen, folded his hands, and looked at me with that calm, easy confidence—the kind you only get when you know you’re in control. He leaned back, completely at ease, and I felt the power shift settle over me like a heavy coat.

I quickly pulled out my phone, slipping into my best loyal-lackey routine, hoping no one saw the flush on my cheeks.

I faked a cheerful tone, “Of course, Mr. Hayes. I’ll keep you updated.” My fingers flew over the screen, adding his Messenger contact back, swallowing my pride with every tap. Fake it till you make it, right?

I added back the Messenger contact I once blocked—even though I’d sworn we’d never have anything to do with each other again. I bit the inside of my cheek, hoping no one saw my hands shake.

My thumb hovered over the screen for a second, remembering how good it felt to block him. Now, here I was, undoing it all, one swipe at a time. God, what a joke.

I knew it wouldn’t be that simple. There was always a catch with Julian. Always.

Nothing with Julian ever was. There was always a catch, always a price. I braced myself for the other shoe to drop.

Sure enough, he immediately sent me a message: “Come find me when you’re done.”

It popped up before I’d even put my phone away. My stomach twisted. I forced myself to reply with a smiley face. Showtime.

I treated myself like a piece of meat waiting to be carved up. I rinsed my mouth, then sprayed on perfume to cover the whiskey smell he hated. Every move was calculated. I was on autopilot.

I checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror—lipstick fixed, perfume spritzed behind my ears. Anything to erase the scent of cheap whiskey and desperation. I almost laughed at the effort.