Part 3After the Breakup, My Ex Demanded I Repay Every Dime

I dragged my battered body home.

The tiny trailer at the edge of Rustwood, West Virginia, shook with every gust of wind, the sharp clash of metal sheets robbing me of sleep on stormy nights. Summers were worse—an oven with no air conditioning, where I’d collapsed from heatstroke more than once because I couldn’t afford the electricity bill.

I never thought Valerie would find me again. But I never imagined our next meeting would be in court.

I stared at the newspaper clippings on my wall, then began tearing them down one by one.

Each article bore her picture: Valerie Morgan, the rising star of the renewable energy industry; Valerie Morgan, one of New York City’s Top 10 Women Entrepreneurs; Valerie Morgan, radiant at her lavish wedding to Brian Chambers.

I swallowed hard, stuffing the crumpled pages into a box beneath my bed.

At the bottom of the box was a photo of us—a younger, softer Valerie leaning against me, her shy, radiant smile brimming with hope.

The woman in court had been a stranger. Cold. Unforgiving.

She was a CEO now, a philanthropist, a beloved wife. Everything but my girlfriend.

I laughed bitterly, shoving the photo into the box with the clippings.

Then I picked up my phone and called the bar manager.

“Put me on the night shift,” I said.

At night, the bar drew wealthy women looking for entertainment. Their desires could be twisted, their wallets deep.

It was degrading, but it paid well. And I needed the money. I needed to live.

What I didn’t expect was to see Valerie there.

She stood at the center of a crowd, the spotlight catching her elegant figure. My fingers clenched as my face burned.

She saw me too. Her expression flickered—shock, disbelief—and then settled into mockery.

“So, this is where you work now.”

Sweat pooled in my palms, but I forced myself to stay composed.

“Your drink, ma’am,” I said calmly.

Her gaze was scornful, like she was watching a rat crawl out of the gutter.

“Figures. Women who come here can set you up for life. Fits your style.”

I took another deep breath.

“Your drink, ma’am,” I repeated.

She arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

“How long have you been here? Don’t you know how to serve properly?”

She pulled a checkbook from her purse, scribbled something, and dropped it at my feet.

“Serve my friends well, and this is yours.”

Pain shot through my knee as I bent down to pick it up.

When I saw the amount—$15,023—my chest constricted, air squeezing from my lungs.

It was the exact sum I’d paid her in court.

She was using it to humiliate me.

I straightened slowly, meeting her gaze. After a long silence, I spoke:

“This is payment for my services, Miss Morgan. I assume… I won’t need to repay it?”