The Don’s Fake Poverty

On the night of our third anniversary, Killian missed dinner again. Texted me he was working late at the auto shop.

I looked at the $5.90 clearance cake on the table. I'd fought a crowd at the grocery store to buy it. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat.

We need to save for a real house in Brooklyn, I told myself. I put the cake in the fridge.

I wrapped my cheap coat tight and walked into the cold to deliver late-night takeout for extra cash.

I never expected to run into my "poor" husband at a luxury hotel in Manhattan.

He stepped out of a Rolls-Royce in a sharp custom suit, tossing hundred-dollar bills to the valet.

A hot woman wearing a priceless pigeon-blood ruby followed behind him, hooking his arm.

"Killian, it's snowing so hard. Are you really going back to Brooklyn to play house with your naive little peasant wife?" she whined.

Killian looked at the cheap, tarnished silver ring on his finger. A hint of softness crossed his cold eyes. "For three years, she worked five jobs a day to pay off the fake debts I made up. She wouldn't even see a doctor when she was sick."

"That's enough. She passed my test. Once I deal with the rat in the family, I'll tell her everything. Give her the glory she deserves as my Donna."

The woman bit her lip. "What if she finds out you're a Mafia Don and is just after your money? Why not tell her you have a terminal illness—see if she'll drain her savings to save you. Test her one more time…"

Killian stayed quiet for a long time.

Finally, he nodded. "One last test. After this, I'm giving her the grandest wedding."

The freezing wind howled. I gripped the paper takeout bag. Tears rolled down my face without a sound.

I am done with this arrogant, lying love.

Back in my cheap apartment, I yanked the fridge open.

The $5.90 strawberry cake sat on the top shelf. The cheap frosting was melting.

I stood in line for twenty minutes after my shift to get it. I stared at it for three seconds. Yesterday, I would never dare to waste it.

Today, I threw the whole box into the trash can.

Three years. Three whole years.

I dug through discount bins for bruised veggies. I begged the butcher for cheap offcuts. All so Killian could eat a little better.

He came home every day in second-hand coveralls, reeking of motor oil. He'd sigh and tell me his boss cut his pay again.

I would twist my $50 tarnished wedding ring, kiss his cheek, and say, "You worked so hard today, honey."

Out of pure love for him, I worked three grueling part-time jobs. Even in tonight's blizzard, I rode my bike through the freezing wind to deliver food.

I just wanted to save enough for a tiny Brooklyn condo.

And him?

He even let another woman judge me