I used to think women who dated rich men were the lucky ones.

From the outside, that world looks perfect: luxury vacations, expensive gifts, yachts, sports cars, and a future that seems already secured. It sounds amazing—until you're actually living in it.

I met Christopher on a dating app during a particularly boring week. He was forty, successful, very much "new money." The kind of man who owned several sports cars, spent summers on a yacht, and talked casually about things most people only dream about. From the beginning, he spoke about marriage, providing for his future wife, building a life together.

Sounds perfect, right?

A wealthy man who wants to settle down. At the time, I was still in college, struggling through exams and wondering what my future would look like. The idea was mesmerizing. If I'm honest, a small part of me still finds it mesmerizing.

So we started dating.

The first few dates were flawless. For months, I was convinced I had somehow stumbled into my future. Everything felt effortless. He was attentive, generous, charming. I thought I had found exactly what I wanted.

Silly me.

The problems didn't appear immediately. The first few weeks were wonderful. Then came what I privately called the hoes problem.

You see, when a man has money, attention from women becomes a constant part of his life. And some men don't stop entertaining that attention just because they're seeing someone.

While I was buried under textbooks preparing for exams, Christopher spent weekends on his yacht surrounded by women. Lots of women.

Sometimes there were a few male friends too, but mostly women.

According to him, they were all just friends. They were there for the atmosphere, for the fun, for the vibe. Maybe some of them were. But it's difficult to feel comfortable when your boyfriend is spending his weekends surrounded by bikini-clad women who, more often than not, had probably hooked up with him at some point.

Not exactly ideal.

The worst part was that I never said much about it. Complaining felt vulnerable, almost like admitting insecurity. Besides, a part of me was curious. I wanted to see how far he would push it. How much of this was harmless, and how much wasn't.

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"Careful," Christopher said, taking my hand as I stepped onto the enormous white yacht.

Exams were finally over, and as a reward—because apparently I was either a child or a particularly well-behaved dog—he had invited me to spend the weekend at sea with him.

A thoughtful gesture.

At least, it would have been if there hadn't already been three women and two of his friends on board.

I swallowed my sigh and stepped inside.