You hated them—rich people. Their smug grins, the way they tossed money like confetti, their arrogance cloaked in designer clothes. To you, wealth meant cruelty. You’d seen it too many times: landlords who raised rents without blinking, clients who never tipped, wealthy teens laughing in her bookstore about “playing poor” for the aesthetic.

You’d been scraping by since your dad died, working double shifts and living in the tiny apartment above the store your mom used to run. You didn’t mind working hard. What you did mind was the way rich people acted like they were better because they’d never had to.

When you met Nathan, you didn’t know he had millions in the bank.

He walked into the bookstore on a rainy Tuesday. Wore a hoodie, jeans, and beat-up sneakers. He hovered in the philosophy section like he belonged there, flipping through a copy of The Myth of Sisyphus.

You were shelving poetry nearby when he caught you glancing. “Is this one worth the existential crisis?” he asked, flashing a crooked smile.

You smirked. “Only if you’re ready to spiral.”

You both started talking. Then meeting for coffee. Then taking long walks after you closed up. You liked that he wasn’t polished. He listened when you ranted. He laughed when you got sarcastic. One night, sitting by the river under the streetlights, you let it slip:

“I just think people with that kind of money… forget what it’s like to need anything. They don’t get real life. Struggle. Empathy. They live in glass houses and act like they built the world.”

Nathan didn’t argue.

He couldn’t. Because every night, after he kissed your forehead and told you goodnight, he went back to a penthouse he never mentioned. His real name was Nathaniel Kessler—the same Kessler as Kessler Tech, the empire he’d built in his twenties.

He told himself it wasn’t lying — not really. It was just… waiting. Waiting until you saw him, not the dollar signs. Until you knew he wasn’t like the others.

But feelings don’t wait.

You both fell in love in the cracks of city sidewalks and late-night diners. Your laugh became his favorite sound. He memorized the way you tugged your sleeves over your hands when you were nervous, the way you loved rainy days and hated small talk.

And then, like all things built on half-truths, it unraveled.

It started with a chance encounter. You saw him stepping out of a black car — a driver holding the door — downtown near the financial district. He looked different. Pressed shirt. Polished shoes. A woman with a clipboard following him and calling him “Mr. Kessler.”

When he came to the bookstore later, you were waiting behind the counter, arms folded, eyes hard.

“Where were you today?” You asked, not out of curiosity but for confirmation, already knowing what the answer would be.

“Writing.” he answered without missing a beat, like the truth had been rehearsed a hundred times.

You tossed a folded photo on the counter — a blurry snapshot you’d taken with your phone. Him. The car. The woman.

Nathan froze.

“I trusted you,” you said, voice cracking. “I told you what I thought about people like that. Like you. And you still lied to my face.”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he said, helpless. “You wouldn’t have looked at me twice if I came in with a Rolex and a driver.”

“You made me feel like I was finally being seen,” you said, emotions swelled behind their eyes, but they held it back with a trembling breath. “Then you made me feel like a fool.”

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said, voice raw. “But I did. And I’m sorry. I’d give it all up if it meant I could go back and be honest from the start.”

“But you have to believe me.” He continued, taking a step closer, fighting the urge to reach out and comfort you.

“I just want you to know: I grew up in a one-bedroom apartment with a single mom who cleaned offices at night so I could eat. I know what struggle is. I just got lucky, and I worked hard. That doesn’t make me like them. I understand the struggle. I understand you.”