The CEO Who Pretended to Be Poor

The sound of Derek's laughter echoing from our bedroom hit me like a physical blow. I stood frozen in the doorway of our shared apartment, my laptop bag sliding from my shoulder to crash against the hardwood floor.

I had come home early from the client meeting, excited to share the news that Morrison & Associates had finally approved my design proposal. The partnership track was within reach, and I couldn't wait to celebrate with Derek. Instead, I found my world crumbling.

"Oh God, Derek, yes!" The feminine voice wasn't mine.

My hand trembled as I pushed open the bedroom door. There they were—Derek, my boyfriend of three years, tangled in our sheets with a woman whose platinum blonde hair spilled across my pillow like liquid gold. Her manicured nails, adorned with diamonds that probably cost more than my monthly salary, dug into his back.

The woman turned first, her ice-blue eyes meeting mine with a mixture of surprise and smug satisfaction. Recognition hit me like a sledgehammer. Tiffany Reed. The oil heiress whose face graced society pages and whose family owned half the commercial real estate in the city.

"Derek." My voice came out as a whisper, barely audible over the sound of my heart shattering.

He jerked away from her, his face cycling through shock, guilt, and then—worst of all—relief. As if he'd been waiting for this moment.

"Isabella." He didn't even have the decency to look ashamed as he reached for his discarded shirt. "You're home early."

"Clearly." I gripped the doorframe to keep myself upright. "What is this?"

Tiffany stretched languidly, making no effort to cover herself. "Oh, don't be so dramatic, darling. These things happen." Her voice carried the lazy confidence of someone who had never been denied anything in her life.

"These things happen?" I repeated, my voice rising. "Derek, we've been together for three years. We talked about marriage, about—"

"About what?" Derek stood, pulling on his pants with infuriating casualness. "About your little apartment? Your student loans? Your dreams of making partner at some mid-tier firm?"

Each word was a knife twisting deeper. "What are you saying?"

He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, suddenly looking older than his thirty years. "I'm saying I'm upgrading, Isabella. Tiffany and I... we make sense. Her family's connections, her social standing—"

"Her money," I finished, the pieces clicking into place with sickening clarity.

Tiffany laughed, a tinkling sound like breaking crystal. "At least he's honest about it. Most men pretend it's about love."

"Derek." I stepped into the room, my legs unsteady. "Tell me this is some kind of mistake. Tell me you're not throwing away everything we built for—"

"For what? A better life?" His brown eyes, the ones I used to think were warm and loving, now looked cold and calculating. "Isabella, be realistic. You're talented, I'll give you that, but talent only gets you so far. Tiffany can open doors I could never reach with you."

The casual cruelty of his