The Best Kind of Lie

My entrepreneur boyfriend and I had been living in a tiny rental, eating bread every day.

Then one day, I saw his name on the Young Entrepreneurs List.

Not only was he the CEO of my company's biggest competitor, but he was also worth over 100 million.

For my birthday, my boyfriend gave me a cheap little cake from the supermarket instead of a real birthday cake. After I took the cake, which was barely bigger than my palm, out of the plastic bag, he stuck a candle in it and turned off the lights, telling me to make a wish.

I stared at the flickering candle in the dark.

Eventually, I reached over and ruffled his fuzzy hair, which felt a little stiff but still oddly satisfying to touch.

"Lance! It's my birthday, and this is what you're giving me? A tiny cake like this? You think you're so funny, huh?"

In the darkness, he grabbed my wrist before pulling me into his arms.

"Last year, I ordered a cake for your birthday, and you lectured me for wasting money," he said, his voice tinged with a touch of mock sadness.

"This year, I didn't waste any money. These little cakes are perfect. They're cheap and practical, and you get to eat them for three days."

-

My boyfriend, Lance Gill, and I were the infamous poor couple in our apartment building, Unit 21 of Block 4.

It was probably because I once stood in front of the local supermarket for hours, waiting to buy dead fish from our neighbor, a fishmonger. She had been telling everyone in the hallway ever since that I was a useless youth, always looking for cheap deals.

-

I leaned back on the couch, trying to use my feet to spin the fan, which was wobbling.

Suddenly, I felt my ankle being gripped.

Lance, with one hand holding my ankle, used his other hand to adjust the fan.

"Stop sitting in front of the fan all the time; you'll catch a cold," he said.

"A cold?"

I tugged at my collar to show him.

"Look at all the sweat on me, and you think I'm going to catch a cold?"

He glanced at me with half-lidded eyes. If he weren't so ridiculously handsome, I would have kicked him.

Well, women are complicated. He gave me a supermarket cake for my birthday, and I still got mad.

But I didn't say anything. I wanted him to figure out why I was upset on his own.

I watched as he gently loosened his grip on my ankle, and his body shifted closer.

His eyes were growing darker.

Lance and I had been together for five years, and I knew him too well.

I grabbed a cushion and hugged it against my body.

"I'm telling you, Lance, not today. I'm in a bad mood! I—"

Before I could finish, he suddenly yanked my wrist upward.

When I opened my eyes, I noticed a small watch on