It started so subtly, I almost didn’t notice it. That’s the thing about betrayal, isn’t it? It rarely crashes down like thunder. It’s a slow erosion, a whisper in the dark that only later screams at you.
We were happy. Genuinely, blissfully happy. He was everything I’d ever wanted: kind, funny, ambitious, and he looked at me like I was the only star in his sky. Our engagement was a dream, a promise of forever that felt solid, unbreakable. We talked about our future, our little house, even names for our hypothetical children. My heart ached with love for him. He was my rock, my safe harbor.
Then came my promotion. A big one. The kind that came with a significant bump in salary, enough to make a real difference, enough to speed up our plans for that little house. I was ecstatic. He was too, or so I thought. He hugged me tight, spinning me around, his voice filled with pride. “My brilliant girl!” he’d said. It was one of my happiest days.
A baby in a striped onesie and a white hat, crying | Source: Pexels
The change began the following week. We were out with his friends – a casual dinner, nothing fancy. The check came. Usually, we’d split it or take turns. But this time, he caught my eye, a subtle nod towards the server. “You got this, right, babe?” he murmured, a smile playing on his lips. “Big earner now!” His friends chuckled good-naturednaturedly. I smiled back, a warm glow in my chest. He’s proud of me, I thought. He wants to show off a little. I paid. It was seventy-five dollars. A nice gesture.
A few days later, another dinner. Different friends, same scenario. This time, it was eighty. Then a brunch for ten people. A hundred and fifty. It became a routine. Every time we went out with his friends – which was increasingly often – the bill magically landed in front of me. He’d make a joke about my “newfound wealth,” or give me that charming, expectant look that used to melt my heart. It’s just money, I told myself. We’re practically married. What’s mine is ours, right?
But it wasn’t ours. It was mine. My new salary, meant for our future, was steadily being siphoned off to pay for his social life. My bank account, which had swelled with that first post-raise paycheck, was slowly starting to dwindle. I started tracking it. In a month, I had spent nearly a thousand dollars on his friends’ dinners. A thousand dollars. On people who barely acknowledged me, who just nodded politely as I pulled out my card.
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The warmth I once felt turned into a cold knot in my stomach. I tried to talk to him, gently at first. “Honey, the dinners are getting a bit expensive…” I started one evening. He looked up from his phone, a dismissive wave of his hand. “Come on, it’s just a few bucks. You can afford it now. Don’t be stingy.” Stingy? My jaw tightened. This is not about stinginess.
I tried again, more directly. “Are you struggling financially? Is there something you’re not telling me?” He laughed, a light, airy sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nonsense! Just enjoying my brilliant fiancée’s success. My treat, through you!” He kissed my forehead, and the conversation was over.
Doubt began to gnaw at me. This wasn’t the man I knew. He’d always been so careful with money, almost frugal. Now he seemed… profligate. And it was all on my dime. My savings, which were supposed to be for our deposit, were stagnant. His own contribution to our joint savings had practically stopped. He always had an excuse: “bonus is delayed,” “unexpected car repair,” “helping out a family member.” I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him. I loved him, truly. But a creeping, ugly suspicion was taking root. Was I just a walking ATM?
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One Friday, he planned a big dinner. Ten people, at a fancy restaurant. “It’s a celebration for me finally getting that big contract,” he announced, beaming. “My treat, of course!” He then winked at me, “Through you, my love.” The familiar dread washed over me. This dinner alone would be several hundred dollars. My anxiety spiraled. I was falling behind on my own bills, thanks to this constant outflow of cash. My new, higher salary was somehow making me poorer.
I started feeling ill, a constant churning in my stomach. I skipped lunches, started walking to work instead of taking the bus, all to make up the difference. He didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care. The thought was a dagger to my heart.
The night of the ‘celebration’ dinner arrived. I plastered a smile on my face, but inside, I was screaming. I excused myself to the restroom, my head pounding. As I passed our table, I saw his phone lying face up. A text message notification popped up on the screen, just for a second before it faded. It was from a number I didn’t recognize, but the name… “Baby Mama.”
My breath caught. Baby Mama?
A serious bald man with a beard and mustache looking forward | Source: Pexels
My world tilted. No. It must be a joke. A nickname for a cousin. A friend. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst through my ribs. I picked up his phone, my hands shaking uncontrollably. I knew it was wrong, a violation of trust, but something primal took over. I needed to know.
I opened the message thread. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a nickname. There were pictures. A child. A little boy, maybe four years old, with eyes just like his. And messages. So many messages.
Did you send the money for this month? The school fees are due.
He’s asking for you. When are you coming to see him again?
A dessert pie topped with a scoop of ice cream on a table with a cup of coffee and string lights in the background | Source: Pexels
And from him, just yesterday: Soon. Just got another payment from my fiancée. Enough to cover rent and the rest of the school stuff. Be patient a little longer.
I felt the blood drain from my face. My knees buckled. He wasn’t paying for friends’ dinners. He wasn’t struggling. He was sending money to his ex-wife and their secret child. My raise, my hard-earned money, wasn’t for our future house, wasn’t for our life together. It was for their life. The dinners were just a theatrical performance, a flimsy excuse to explain away the missing funds, a way to make me feel proud and generous while he systematically bled me dry.
And then I saw the last message, sent just an hour before dinner. A message from him, to her.
“Once I get her to cover the last big debt, I’m out. We can finally be a family again. Just us three.”
A black-and-white portrait of an elderly woman wearing glasses and a striped sweater | Source: Pexels
The plate glass windows of the restaurant blurred through my tears. The laughter of his “friends” – complicit in this monstrous lie, perhaps? – echoed in my ears. I wasn’t his fiancée. I was his mark. His ATM. And the love of my life? He was just a con artist, using me to fund his other, secret, real life. My entire future, our shared dreams, had been nothing but an elaborate, cruel lie. And I had paid for every single second of it.
