The Billionaire’s Fake Poor Boyfriend

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After living with the broke, impossibly gorgeous campus crush in a cramped shoebox apartment for three months, I wanted out.

He was suffocatingly clingy, and behind closed doors, his dominance was relentless.

Desperate, I begged my best friend to help me execute an utterly unhinged exit strategy.

She marched right up to him, a bank card in hand.

"There's five grand on this," she told him flatly. "Leave her alone. She's just a trust-fund kid playing poor for kicks. You are entirely out of her league."

He didn't say a word. He just quietly took the card.

The next morning, the universe played a massive, cruel joke on me.

He was leaning casually against a pristine black Maybach, looking utterly in his element.

With deadpan sincerity, he looked at me and asked, "So, you were faking it too? Does this mean Im finally in your league?"

I froze, my brain short-circuiting. He was faking being poor?

But I was actually broke!

I dodged his kiss.

"Can we skip tonight?"

Holden arched an eyebrow, his long, elegant fingers already hooking the hem of my slip dress.

"Why? Bad timing?"

He smiled, a wicked, knowing curve of his lips.

He knew exactly where I was in my cycle. Back when my periods were agonizingly irregular, hed spent weeks babying me, bringing home fancy, nutrient-dense organic broths every single day.

Id asked him back then, "Where are you getting the money for this?"

He had paused mid-sip of his water, his Adam's apple bobbing as he instinctively licked his lips.

"One of the girls at the warehouse has the same issue. I just asked her to make an extra batch. She didn't charge me."

I was curled up under a mountain of blankets at the time, my cramps blinding, my head thick with brain fog.

Holden had scooped me up out of the covers, spoon-feeding me the warm broth.

"Just eat a little, baby. It'll make you feel better."

It was his favorite line.

Even now.

His cheek rested against my thigh. His lips were damp. "Just let me, baby. You'll feel better."

His knuckles were sharp, his fingers leaving faint, possessive marks against my pale skin.

I gasped.

He let out a low laugh. "And you said you didn't want to?"

The truth was, my defenses had already crumbled into dust.

The bed was a cheap, secondhand nightmare. It squeaked and groaned with every movement. The rhythmic, obnoxious noise finally broke Holden's concentration. He swore under his breatha rare occurrence. "I'm throwing out every piece of furniture in this place tomorrow."

My head was spinning, my arms locked tightly around his neck.

"With what money?" I breathed.

Holden lowered his eyes. "I hit my performance metrics this month. The bonus isn't bad."

That sobered me up a fraction. "How much?"

He blinked, caught off guard.

Then he kissed me again, silencing me. "Don't talk about money in bed. It's tacky."

I cursed him in my head.

I didn't know what was wrong with him. He was broke, yet he acted like he was slumming it by choice.

I really needed to break up with him.

I looked around the room.

It was a decaying apartment on the edge of the city limits. The paint was peeling, and one corner of the ceiling had a suspicious water stain that looked vaguely like black mold.

The internet likes to romanticize this. They call it the "starving lovers" aesthetictwo people with no money and too much chemistry, making it work in a shoebox.

I hated it.

I checked both boxes.

I only went after Holden in the first place because he was breathtakingly beautiful.

I still remember the first time we met.

We were juniors in college. He was the new hire at the convenience store where I worked the graveyard shift.

I already knew who he was. He was the guythe one every girl on campus openly fantasized about.

He walked in wearing a plain white tee, faded Levi's, black-rimmed glasses, and a pair of scuffed-up sneakers. Even swallowed up by our ugly, neon-blue polyester uniform, he looked like a runway model on his day off.

We didn't talk much that first shift.

He messed up the inventory count multiple times.

The store manager, a permanently enraged man, dragged him outside.

Through the glass storefront, I watched them. Holden was tall; the manager was short. Holden naturally had to look down at him, which probably only made things worse.

A customer came to the register. As I scanned their items, my eyes flicked back to the window.

Holden was getting ripped apart. He kept rubbing his face, sniffing occasionally. The manager was jabbing a finger at Holden's uniform, then pointing aggressively at his face. It was humiliating to watch.

When I first started, that same manager had chewed me out until I cried in the stockroom. Looking at Holden, my chest tightened with an unexpected pang of empathy.

Once the manager finally stormed off, Holden walked back inside.

His eyes were rimmed with red. He was swiping a hand roughly over his neck and face.

I gave him a look of pure, unadulterated pity.

He caught it.

His voice was deadpan, completely devoid of emotion. "I'm fine. This polyester is just making me break out in hives."

"It's okay to cry," I said, sliding a packet of tissues across the counter.

His face flushed crimson. A single, traitorous tear spilled over his lashes.

Holden arched a brow and snatched the tissues.

"Thanks." He paused. "But I wasn't crying."

Stubborn idiot.

"Right, sure. You weren't crying. Better?"

"You don't believe me? I was literally just"

His defense was cut off by the bell above the door. Another customer.

Eventually, we became friends.

And I quickly realized he was even poorer than I thought.

Once, when my favorite celebrity got exposed in a massive scandal, I called my best friend, Bex, sobbing. "I'm so mad I'm not even going to use my DoorDash multiplier code tonight!"

Bex laughed. "Whoa, throwing away free money? You really are going through it."

But Holden, who was sitting next to me, just looked confused.

"What's a multiplier code?"

"Huh?" I stared at him. Was he doing a bit?

"It's an app promo. It multiplies your discount if you order within a certain time."

"Oh."

For a second, I wondered if he was some rich kid doing a poverty immersion experiment. I harbored a deep, burning resentment for the wealthy.

So I tested him. "Do you not order delivery?"

He licked his lips. "No."

"Then what do you eat?"

"The dining hall. I have a subsidized meal plan. It's cheap."

Ah. He's poor. My anti-capitalist heart relaxed.

Another time, a guy came into the store and clearly liked what he saw. When he handed Holden his snacks, he traced a slow, deliberate circle over the back of Holden's hand.

"You're cute," the guy purred.

Holden smiled politely, withdrew his hand, and muttered through gritted teeth, "Not a chance in hell."

He was so broke he couldn't even afford to buy a clue.

But Holden was a walking contradiction. He had the bank account of a peasant, but the sensibilities of a prince.

I invited him to split a two-dollar discount pizza combo once. He declined, claiming the last time he ate cheap takeout, his stomach didn't recover for days.

When he worked his second job at the warehouse, he showed up wearing gloves and a mask.

"Why?" I asked.

"Germaphobe."

Yet the few pairs of shoes he owned were either filthy or yellowing with age.

I made fun of them. He told me they were "vintage distressed."

Once, his college roommate dropped by the store while Holden was doubled over, laughing at a terrible joke I'd just made.

The roommate shook his head with profound solemnity. "Man, I haven't seen His Highness smile like that in a long time."

I laughed until my sides hurt.

But I really, truly had to break up with him.

It wasn't just the clinginess.

It was the fact that we could barely make rent, yet he had zero concept of saving. When summer hit and he decided my rattling box fan was too loud, he bypassed my protests and had a brand-new AC unit installed.

I tolerated the financial illiteracy because, well, look at his face.

But his physical appetite was insatiable. It was like an addiction.

That might have been part of his "prince" syndrome, too. He was used to getting exactly what he wanted.

A few times, he absolutely refused to stop. I'd hit him, I'd scratch his beautiful, broad back until it was covered in red half-moons.

It only seemed to turn him on more.

Finally, Id break down and cry in sheer frustration, and only then would he let me go.

After that, I set a hard limit. Three times a day. Max.

So, he just started making each time last twice as long.

"Why did you stop?" I sobbed once, completely unspooled.

Holden, who was usually so gentle and refined outside the bedroom, was an absolute menace inside it.

"Beg me, baby. Tell me I'm yours..."

Hed hold me hostage, forcing me to whisper humiliating, desperate things into his ear before hed finally give me what I wanted.

And whatever miracle ointment he bought for those scratches? It worked like magic. By the next morning, his skin would be flawless. No redness, no swelling.

It only enabled his bad behavior.

I had reached my breaking point.

I vented to Bex over coffee.

"I literally have to dump him. Please, you have to help me figure out a way out of this."

"We're adults, Josie," she said, stirring her latte. "Just tell him it's over."

"I tried that!"

"And?"

"I tried to break up with him once, and he cried so hard I thought he was going to warp my hardwood floors!"

There was another time we got into a fight. We were giving each other the silent treatment.

In a fit of rage, I texted him that we were done. Back then, whenever we fought, my go-to move was a metaphorical slap to the face: I threatened to dump him.

Holden had his pride. He texted back a cold, Fine.

Less than an hour later, my phone lit up.

Where are you?

Out finding a rebound, I replied.

Are you trying to kill me? I literally do it for free.

...You're acting unhinged.

He went quiet. A minute passed.

Honestly, I think we can still make this work.

The circus is in town. Tell the clown to step down so you can take his place.

If you just take me back, Ill do anything you want.

Then we're going celibate.

Absolutely not.

...

Anything besides that. You can hit me. You can tie me up. Ill even buy you the whip.

Stop rewarding yourself, weirdo.

I had dozens of screenshots just like that.

When I showed them to Bex, she nearly choked on her coffee laughing.

"This is premium content for my TikTok," she wheezed.

Then, her eyes lit up.

"Wait. I've got it. What if we pretend youre actually rich? Like, stupid wealthy. Tell him you were just playing poor to see how the other half lives."

She leaned in. "Guys have massive egos. If you humiliate his pride and make him feel inferior, he won't crawl back."

"Bex," I said, awe in my voice. "You're a genius."

The next day.

Bex and I showed up to see Holden wearing rented designer power suits.

I stayed completely silent. Bex took the lead, fully committing to the bit.

"Ms. Lin, your father the CEO insists you stop playing these games. It's time to return to the board and assume your duties."

I felt so intensely guilty I couldn't even look Holden in the eye.

Bex stepped protectively in front of me. She pulled out a prepaid debit card loaded with five thousand dollars and shoved it toward him.

"The PIN is her birthday. Our heiress was just having a little fun. You are completely out of her league."

Holden's face darkened. The air around him dropped ten degrees.

"So this whole time... you were just pretending to be poor? Playing me?"

Why do you look so genuinely heartbroken? I screamed internally.

"Yes," I forced myself to say. "Sorry. The socio-economic gap between us is just too vast. It's over."

Holdens eyes reddened.

"So... if I could prove I was in your league, we wouldn't have to break up?"

I sighed, trying to look suitably tragic. "Perhaps."

Holden let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "Don't count a guy out just because he's down on his luck."

I patted his shoulder.

He was still so naive. Ten years from now, hed realize he was just middle-aged and still down on his luck.

I turned to walk away.

But Holden's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist like a vice.

"Wait."

I knew it. He wasn't going to let it go that easily.

Then, a sharp rip echoed in the air.

Holden had just torn the tag right off the collar of my blazer.