I stared at the notary documents on my phone, the legal text blurring as laughter erupted from the next booth. They were already celebrating a future funded by my money.
A cold knot of hatred tightened in my chest.
Breaking up with Scott wasn't enough. I wanted restitution. I wanted to claw back every cent I'd wasted on him.
More than that, I wanted to ensure that once I was done with him, he'd never crawl out of the hole I dug.
I finished my meal in silence. Once the trio left, I paid and shadowed them into the night.
I watched from a distance as Scott and Fanny disappeared into a cheap motel near campus. The neon sign flickered ominously. It was the exact same place Scott had tried to lure me years ago.
The memory hit me, bitter and sharp.
Back then, Scott had just gotten paid from a part-time gig. He'd taken me to a KTV, where we sang until we missed curfew.
He'd gripped my hand outside this very motel, putting on his most earnest face. "Eleanor, I know it looks rough, but it's better than the street. We can make do for one night."
I'd hesitated, uncomfortable with the grime coating the windows.
Sensing my reluctance, he'd pivoted to the gentleman act. "I just want you to rest. I promise, no other intentions. You take the bed. I'll sit in the chair—or wait outside."
I was naive enough to believe he was just broke but trying. I couldn't bear the thought of him suffering, so I'd dragged him to a 24-hour internet café instead.
I spent that night reviewing notes under harsh fluorescent lights. Scott sat beside me gaming, but he kept glancing over, sighing. "El, if the chair's too hard, we can still go to the motel. I just want you comfortable."
I'd smiled, touched by his "concern." "It's fine, really. This gives me extra study time."
Looking back, I'd been such a fool. He hadn't been concerned about my comfort—he'd been frustrated his cheap plan to get me into bed had failed.
I shook off the past and checked my phone.
I wasn't going to an internet café tonight. I hailed a cab to the finest hotel in the district.
Lying on plush, high-thread-count sheets, a realization hit me.
My money should be for my enjoyment.
Scrimping to support a man was the height of stupidity.
I took a long, hot shower, scrubbing away the grime of the day. When I emerged wrapped in a fluffy robe, I checked my phone. Scott had blown it up.
I scrolled through the barrage of missed calls and texts.
Where are you?
I'm done with family stuff.
Let me take you shopping.
He was anxious. Good.
After letting him stew, I selected a screenshot I'd prepared—a partial view of the inheritance transfer—and hit send.
I followed it with: The notary office contacted me. My biological parents died in an accident. They left everything to me. I've been handling the procedures.
The backstory was tragic, though I felt little grief. My biological parents had spent years searching for me after my grandmother abandoned me for being a girl. My adoptive parents' struggle to conceive had sparked their search.
They'd found me eventually and begged me to come home, but I'd refused. Stubborn.
Who could have predicted an accident would claim them both, leaving their entire estate to the daughter who wouldn't even visit? The notary's notification arrived the very day I'd planned to reject them for good.
Scott knew about my adoption. Not the wealth.
I imagined him staring at that screenshot, greed flaring in his eyes, pupils dilating at the zeroes.
His reply came seconds later.
Where are you? I'm coming right now.
I didn't give my location. Still with the legal team regarding the company acquisition. It's complicated.
He pivoted instantly, his text oozing fake concern. Don't rush. Take it slow. Just be safe, okay? Let me know if you need help.
He didn't ask about the company details. Not yet. The old me would've thought he was being respectful. Now I knew better—he was recalibrating. He needed to solidify his position as "supportive boyfriend" before making his move on the assets.
I went silent for two days.
Let him panic. Let him wonder if his golden goose was flying away.
When I resurfaced, he messaged immediately. My parents haven't left yet. They really want to meet you properly. Dinner?
A cold smile crossed my lips. I wouldn't miss it for the world.
Scott chose the venue—a restaurant with exorbitant prices and a reputation for luxury.
When we sat down, his parents snatched the menus. They didn't read the descriptions—just scanned for the highest prices and pointed.
"We'll take this," his mother said, tapping the most expensive seafood platter. "And this. And a bottle of that red wine."
They ordered like royalty, confident the bill wasn't their problem.
