My son was called to a parent-teacher meeting, and to my surprise, his homeroom teacher was my ex-boyfriend. He adjusted his glasses, eyeing me with suspicion.
“Your nephew?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
I sipped my tea, staying calm. “My son.”
He frowned. “Ava, you’re 23 years old, and your son is 17. Are you trying to pull a fast one on me?”
I barely managed to keep a smile. “My husband is 53. What’s the issue with him having an 17-year-old son?”
“How did you become so shallow?” he scoffed.
“Mr. Ford , do you still have feelings for me?” I asked, a teasing tone in my voice despite the tension.
He clenched his fists in frustration, slamming his hands down onto the desk. His face darkened. “Get out!”
Oh, he was furious.
After graduating from university, I found myself heartbroken and unemployed. I was lost and had no way of moving forward. Then, things took a turn for the worse when my father fell seriously ill. I was desperate for money.
Out of options, I turned to a shortcut.
The richest man in the city, an elderly gentleman, found me.
“I am ill and don’t have much time left,” he explained. “I want to find someone to take care of my son.”
“Sure, no problem. I can play any role,” I agreed, though my voice held the weight of desperation.
The old man was direct, and the next day, he passed away. We never legally registered our relationship, nor did we have a wedding ceremony.
At the funeral, the reading of his will shocked me. It stated, clear as day: “Ava will receive five hundred million dollars once Leo gets into university.”
For those few seconds, I thought about everything that had led me to this point—my struggles, my choices—and I had to hold back laughter at how ridiculous it all seemed.
That evening, I lay in my villa, planning how to spend my fortune. My mind raced with possibilities.
Then came the interruption.
With a loud crash, my luggage was thrown out the front door.
Wearing nothing but my pajamas, I ran outside, barefoot, to find my luggage on fire.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, my temper rising instantly.
Leo stood there, drenched in sweat, his soccer uniform clinging to his body. In his hand, he casually held a cigarette.
“Sorry, the cigarette slipped from my hand,” he said, his voice indifferent.
He looked me over briefly, then flicked the cigarette butt onto my luggage, watching it burn. With a nonchalant shrug, he turned and walked back inside.
I didn’t have time to argue. I was too busy trying to save my luggage from the flames.
By the time I managed to put out the fire, my suitcase was ruined, and a strand of my hair was singed.
Fuming, I marched upstairs to his room and began pounding on his door.
“Who is it?” came Leo’s voice, sounding too calm for my liking.
“Your mother!” I yelled, too angry to care about my tone.
The door swung open. There he stood, wrapped in a bath towel, freshly showered, his damp hair sticking to his forehead.
“Where did I get a mother? Or have you been watching too many videos?” he teased, his eyes glinting with mischief.
“Leo, show some respect!” I snapped, trying and failing to stay composed.
“Respect? You barge into my room while I’m bathing and then demand respect?” he replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
I was at a loss for words.
“Ava, I can’t tolerate someone like you around. Please leave. Is that respectful enough?” Leo mocked.
With a loud bang, the door slammed in my face.
Didn’t they say Leo was just a spoiled brat?
