Part 2Funding My Ex Boyfriends Hot Rival

I didn't bother responding.

I never knew how to love "correctly," I suppose. My version of love was simple: if I cared for someone, I wanted them to have the best of everything. I thought Preston was struggling, that he needed the money, that he was only doing these group streams—something he used to call "beneath him"—out of necessity.

Now I knew. To him, my money was just a shallow, golden cage.

The moment the call ended, I paged my housekeeper and told her to go to the local drugstore and buy two of those massive, cheap plastic moving bags.

All the luggage in this apartment was custom-made, hand-stitched leather. Preston didn't deserve to touch them.

I watched as the housekeeper packed his things. I made sure she didn't include a single designer item I’d bought him—those were too "vain" and might "hurt his fragile pride."

I looked around the penthouse. It was in the heart of the city, every square inch costing more than most people made in a year. I had decorated it ourselves, tailoring every detail to Preston’s tastes. If I had known he felt "humiliated" living here every day, I would have let the unit sit empty.

I felt a surge of anger, but my eyes betrayed me, stinging with tears. Three years. You don't just switch off three years of feelings, no matter how much of a bastard the guy turned out to be. He had threatened to leave a dozen times before, but this was the first time I was the one walking away.

As I packed, the comments flared up again.

[Why isn't the villain apologizing yet? Does she think this silent treatment will work on him? So manipulative.]

[Is she seriously acting like she’s moving out? She’s so obsessed with him, she’d die before she actually let him go.]

[If her family didn't have money, would a guy like Preston even look at her? He only stayed because she paid his tuition at the acting conservatory. She bought his time, not his heart.]

[She’ll never understand that every cent she spent on him felt like a slap in the face. He despises her 'charity.']

[He hates the 'capitalist filth.' He dreams of a tiny, one-bedroom apartment with Daisy. Simple meals, three seasons, four directions. That’s real happiness. The villain will never get it.]

I tried to ignore them, but the sheer delusion was suffocating. If Preston hated my family’s help so much, he shouldn't have accepted the tuition. He shouldn't have accepted the black card. He was the one who pursued me for an entire year when we first met.

He was a scholarship student from a small town; I was a girl with a trust fund that could buy the town.

I had paid for everything. His fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year allowance, his skincare, his wardrobe, his travel for auditions. I never made him ask. I just put the money in his account because I wanted him to focus on his "art."

In return, he kept me a secret at school. He said he didn't want people thinking he was a "gold digger." He refused to be seen with me in the cafeteria or the library.

He chose streaming because it was "quick money," but every time I supported him with a gift, he acted like I’d spit on his grave.

It all made sense now. My support was his "burden." My love was his "humiliation."

Fine. Let him be free.

I was sitting on the floor, crying despite myself, when the front door clicked open. Preston stood there, his face tight with fury.