Serving My Ex’s Wife, The Billionaire’s Dirty Secret

To save up money for my boyfriend and me, I took a private catering gig through an app, even though I was six months pregnant. Usually, these home-cooking gigs paid a couple of hundred bucks. But this one was offering thousands. When I arrived at the luxury penthouse, I softly asked the hostess if she had made a mistake with the pricing. She laughed gently. "No mistake. My husband loves me too much. He said he couldn't stand seeing me holding a spatula, so he insisted we hire someone. I hope we didn't make you feel awkward." I smiled, feeling a pang of envy. The money from this single job would have taken my boyfriend and me months to save. I turned around to prep in the kitchen. As I was washing the vegetables, my phone lit up. My boyfriend sent a Snapchat message saying he’d be home late because he was doing food delivery to make extra cash. I wiped my hands on my apron and was about to reply when I heard the front door click open. Then came a man’s voice. "Just got out of my meeting. Did you miss me, babe?" I had listened to that voice for three years. I could recognize it with my eyes closed. It was my boyfriend. The man I had been with for three years, the one I had been too afraid to introduce to my family because of his "poverty." The baby in my belly kicked hard. I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter so tightly that my nails dug into the marble, and blood began to seep from the cuticles. The pain spread from my fingertips to my palms, but I couldn't feel it. All my senses were hijacked by the voice outside. In the living room, the happy sounds of a family of three filled the air. The man was playing with the toddler, and the woman was laughing. That laughter felt like a blunt knife, slowly carving out my heart. Austin. I had whispered that name for three years. I had genuinely believed he was the poorest, most miserable, most pitiful man in the world. He had told me his company’s supply chain broke, leaving him in massive debt. He said debt collectors were hounding him, and he had almost jumped off a building. He told me his parents died in a car crash years ago, leaving him with no support, and that we had to rely entirely on ourselves to get married. He said we had to save slowly, or else he would feel like he was failing me and my mom. When he told me those things, he cried like a baby. The first time I saw him cry was on the bed in my cheap rented apartment. He buried his face in my lap, his shoulders shaking. "Chloe, do you look down on me? If you do, I’ll understand." My heart broke for him. I wrapped my arms around his head and said, "I don't care about the money. I’ll always be here with you." I handed him my debit card and told him the PIN was his birthday. He took the card, clutching it tightly. "Chloe, I swear I’ll treat you right for the rest of my life." He put the card into his wallet—a cheap, fake leather thing with frayed, peeling edges. Only later did I find out that his actual wallet was a customized Louis Vuitton one, resting casually on Victoria’s shoe rack. I gave him all my savings—about ten thousand dollars. That was money I had saved over two years, meant for a cheap used car. He insisted it was a loan and even wrote me a promissory note: "Austin owes Chloe $10,000, to be paid within a year." A year had passed, and the note was still in his pocket. I found it once while doing the laundry. He told me, "Don't throw it away. It’s our promise." I believed him. I folded it neatly and put it back. And now, here I was, six months pregnant, taking heavy catering gigs to make a quick two hundred dollars. He was the one who encouraged me to take on more jobs. He helped me book two extra slots, saying, "Late-night gigs pay better. Do a few more runs, and we’ll reach our goal faster." I never doubted his sincerity. Every time I was too exhausted and wanted to give up, he would kneel down, press his ear to my belly, and look up with bright, child-like eyes. "Chloe, listen! Our baby is kicking me. He’s so strong. He’s definitely going to be a boy, just like me. Once we save enough, we’ll get registered. I’ll cook for you every day and spoil you rotten." With just that one sentence, I would drag myself up from my squeaky mattress and stand on my feet for another eight hours. But now, peering through the crack of the kitchen door, I saw the ugly truth.He was holding a one-and-a-half-year-old girl, kissing her forehead, calling her Lily. He had his arm wrapped around a woman wearing a cashmere lounge set, calling her his wife. That woman was Victoria. On her finger sparkled a diamond ring. The main stone was at least three carats, reflecting brilliant light under the crystal chandelier. On her feet were Chanel slides, the logo glaringly obvious. In the corner of the living room sat at least six orange Hermès shopping bags, not yet unpacked. The couch was genuine Italian leather, the TV was a massive flush-mount screen, and the dining table was set with high-end bone china. Meanwhile, I was wearing a pair of cheap fleece slippers. The soles were completely worn down, sliding precariously on the polished marble floor. I stood in that kitchen for forty minutes. I finished cooking the last course, a soup, and carried it out. During those forty minutes, a thousand excuses ran through my head. Maybe she was his sister? But he said his parents were dead and he had no siblings. Maybe she was his ex-wife? But he said he had never been married. Maybe the child wasn't his? But the little girl's eyes and nose were identical to his. They had the exact same brow, the same double eyelids, and even the same dimple when they smiled. For forty minutes, I unraveled, rebuilt, and examined three years of memories, like pulling apart a poorly knitted sweater. I pulled at the threads until I realized the entire thing was rotten from the start. Victoria took the soup bowl, her smile incredibly sweet. "Thank you so much. It smells amazing." She took a sip and turned to Austin. "Babe, she cooks even better than our regular private chef. Maybe we should just hire her from now on?" She stuffed an envelope of cash into my apron pocket, a warm gesture as if she were treating a younger sister. Then she grabbed a handful of imported organic cherries—the expensive kind that cost twenty bucks a pound—and forced them into my hands. "Take them, take them. It’s late, don't be polite." Austin, sitting across the table, turned pale the moment he saw me. I looked at him and smiled slightly. "Thank you. I hope your family has a wonderful life." I emphasized the word "family" heavily, so hard that I almost bit through my tongue. His fork clattered. The silver fork hit the bone china plate with a sharp ring, splashing gravy onto the pristine white tablecloth, leaving a dark, ugly stain. Victoria turned to look at him. "What’s wrong, babe?" "Nothing, my hand slipped." He bent down to pick up the fork. In that split second, his eyes finally dared to dart toward me. His gaze was filled with terror, panic, and a silent plea. "Please don't say anything." I understood his look. He was begging me not to ruin his perfect home. But what about "my" home?I turned back to the kitchen to clean up. Three minutes later, he slipped in and locked the door behind him. The kitchen was small. With both of us inside, the distance between us was less than two feet. He smelled of Hermès Terre—a luxury cologne I had smelled on him for three years. I had always assumed it was some cheap, ten-dollar knockoff he bought from the grocery store downstairs. "Chloe—" "Don't call me that." "Listen to me. She and I... it was an arranged marriage. I don't love her at all. Just give me a little more time!" "How old is your daughter?" He fell silent. "I asked you, how old is your daughter?" "...One and a half." "How long have we been together?" Again, silence. "Three years," I answered for him, my voice shaking like a leaf. "Three years and two months. Over a thousand days. Austin, your daughter is a year and a half old. That means when you met me, your wife was already pregnant. When you were pursuing me, your wife was going to prenatal checkups. When you told me you were single, your daughter was already born." "Has anything you've ever said been true?" He was silent for a very long time. So long that I thought he might at least apologize. But when he finally spoke, his tone changed. It wasn't guilt. It wasn't shame. It was cold. A bone-chilling cold I had never heard from him before. "Don't make a scene." "Don't make a scene." I had heard those words for three years. Every time he broke a promise, lied, or got caught in a discrepancy, it was always those words. "Don't make a scene. Don't ask. Don't worry about it." I had been trained like a pet, shutting my mouth the moment I heard those words, retreating back into my cage to lick my wounds in secret. The last time he said it was when I found a text on his phone at 2:00 AM saying, "Goodnight, honey." He claimed it was a client, a wealthy woman he had to keep happy for business. I believed him. But this time was different. "She has a weak heart; she can’t handle stress," he whispered rapidly, as if managing a difficult business crisis. "She has congenital heart disease. If she gets too emotional, she could collapse. If you cause a scene and something happens to her, we’re both ruined." I touched my belly. The baby kicked, as if saying: "Mom, don't be afraid." "I’m leaving." "Chloe—" "Move." He blocked the doorway, his face twisting into a chokehold of emotions. He glanced at my belly. "Chloe, this baby... is it really mine?" I froze. It felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over my head, freezing me from my scalp to my toes. "What did you just say?" "You’ve been with me for three years, but how do I know you weren't seeing anyone else?" His voice was incredibly low, but every word felt like a poisoned needle. "Didn't you tell me you had a guy friend you grew up with? Last time you said you were working overtime, he posted an Instagram story showing he was right near your office. You think I didn't see that?" My mouth opened, but no sound came out.That guy friend was Ryan, my childhood neighbor. He was two years older than me, like an older brother. That day, he was just passing by my office and brought me a sandwich. He snapped a picture and posted it. That was it. But Austin used that single incident to turn the tables on me every time I questioned him. "You know the truth deep down. If you insist on having this baby, we’ll do a DNA test first." "A DNA test." Those words felt like a physical slap in the face. I was six months pregnant. In all those six months, he had never accompanied me to a single ultrasound. He had never looked at a sonogram. He had touched my stomach less than three times. He always said he was busy, that his startup was trying to secure funding, that things would get better once he got through this rough patch. I believed him. Now I understood. He wasn't busy. He just didn't care. Because in his heart, he wasn't even sure the baby was his. I shoved past him, threw open the door, and walked out. Victoria was standing in the living room, holding a cup of coffee, looking like an elegant painting. She saw me emerge from the kitchen and blinked. "Oh, what’s wrong? You look so pale. Is it too hot in the kitchen?" She walked over, reaching out to touch my forehead. "Do you want to sit down? I can have the maid bring you a glass of water." "No, thank you. I have to go." I dodged her hand and walked quickly toward the door. She followed me to the entryway, still smiling. "Get home safe! I’ll definitely book you again." As the elevator doors closed, I heard Austin’s voice from inside the apartment. It wasn't loud, but it was crystal clear. "Babe, don't let strangers like that into our house anymore. They aren’t clean." "They aren’t clean." Those words. I crouched in the corner of the elevator, crushing the cherries Victoria had given me, one by one, in my fist. The pits were hard, bruising my palms. The skin on my hands tore, and drops of blood mingled with the dark red juice. When the elevator reached the lobby, the doors slid open. I stood up, wiped my sticky hands, and walked out of the luxury high-rise. The driveway was lined with luxury cars—Porsches, Range Rovers, Benzes. The doorman, dressed in a custom wool coat, looked at me carrying my heavy catering bag with a judging eye, like he was looking at a stray cat that had wandered into a private garden. Outside, it was snowing. I stood in the cold, waiting for my Uber. As I waited, my phone buzzed. A text from Austin. "Don't overthink tonight. About the baby, we'll talk after it's born. We’ll do a test, and if it's mine, I won't shirk my responsibility." What a charitable tone. As if saying, "If it’s mine, I might grant you some crumbs. If it’s not, get lost." The phone buzzed again. "Don't try to go to Victoria. Her family has serious political connections. You can't afford to mess with them. If you make a scene, you're only hurting yourself." No wonder. No wonder he was willing to play the loyal dog in that house. It wasn't because he was poor; it was because he wanted to climb the social ladder. I was just a wild flower he had plucked along his way up. He stepped on me, and that was that.The Uber arrived. I climbed into the backseat and gave my address. The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror, hesitated, and then handed me a packet of tissues. "You okay, sweetie? Wipe your face." I touched my cheek and realized I was covered in tears. I didn't even know when they had started falling, cold and wet. It was 2:00 AM by the time I got back. My apartment was in a run-down, sketchier suburb. The streetlight outside my building had been broken for six months, and nobody had bothered to fix it. I pushed the door open to my tiny, 200-square-foot studio. The wallpaper was peeling, and wind whistled through the gaps in the window. On the table sat my prenatal vitamins. Next to them was a baby poster I had taped to the wall—a chubby, smiling baby. In the corner were a few cans of discounted baby formula. I had gone to three different grocery stores to compare prices just to save twelve dollars. To save those twelve dollars, I had stood in line for three hours. I tossed my apron into the washing machine. The envelope of cash fell out of the pocket. Adding what I made tonight, I had nearly two thousand dollars. But it was still a far cry from the twenty thousand we needed. Though now, I didn't even know what I was saving for anymore. I sat on the edge of the bed and touched my belly. The baby kicked rhythmically, like a heartbeat. "Sweetheart," I whispered, "is Mommy really stupid?" The baby kicked again. "You think Mommy is stupid too, don't you?" I let out a dry laugh, but as I laughed, the tears fell again. My phone rang. It was Austin, calling from a different number. I silenced it and put it face-down on the table. By the eighth call, I finally picked up. "Chloe, I take back what I said earlier. I was just stressed. Please calm down, let's talk about this." "Talk about what?" "Our future. My feelings for you are real. Once I handle things on this end, we’ll get married." "Handle things? How? A divorce?" He fell silent for a few seconds. "She’ll agree to it. Her family has money, they don't really care about me. But you're different. You only have me." "You only have me." Those words used to sound like sweet romance. Now, they sounded like a curse. "Austin, do you think I am incredibly stupid?" "Chloe—" "I was stupid enough to let you lie to me for three years. Stupid enough to give you all my savings. Stupid enough to work manual labor while pregnant to help you raise money. Do you honestly think that if you say a few sweet words, I’ll just keep being your idiot?" The line went quiet. When he spoke again, his voice had changed. The gentle, soothing tone was gone, replaced by a cold hardness. It was like talking to a completely different person. "Chloe, what are you trying to play at?" "I’m telling you to stop calling me."