Chapter 2: The Price of Pride

When it came time to pay, Derek Zhou looked at the pile of designer bags and jewelry in front of him and didn’t even flinch.

He stood there like he was born for this—hands in his pockets, tossing a wink at the sales associate as if dropping six figures was just a Thursday thing. Confidence clung to him, maybe to cover up the nerves underneath.

For a moment, I thought maybe I’d finally landed the right boyfriend.

I watched Derek and tried to believe it. Maybe this was the universe throwing me a bone after all those years of scraping by. Maybe, finally, I’d found someone who could catch me.

Meeting him was dramatic, of course. I was riding my scooter home from work and sideswiped his cherry-red Tesla in the rain.

It was a miserable Thursday. The city lights blurred through the drizzle as I fishtailed on a pothole and clipped off his side mirror. My heart dropped; all I saw were dollar signs and insurance claims.

He was still on the phone, sounding bored: “I’m breaking up with you, don’t you get it, babe?”

He sounded like breaking up was just another box to check. I stood there on the curb, helmet askew, cheeks burning with guilt.

“It’s no fun if you take it so seriously.”

He looked like every bit the playboy.

Derek tossed his phone in the cupholder, flashing me a grin that was half amusement, half dare. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or just entertained by the whole mess.

Instead of getting mad, he just rolled his eyes at his phone and shrugged at me, mouthing, "It’s cool." His chill was almost infuriating.

He flicked his wrist, like he was dismissing a server. "Get outta here," he mouthed, lips curving up. For a second, it was just us—me, shaking in rain-soaked jeans, him, lounging behind the wheel of a busted Tesla.

I hesitated, but then left.

I wanted to insist on paying for the damage, but I swallowed it. I muttered a thank you, kicked my scooter into gear, and disappeared into the night.

If this was two years ago, I would’ve found a way to pay him back, even if it meant taking on three jobs.

Back then, pride would’ve made me hustle—babysitting, odd jobs, whatever it took. Maybe even an apology email. But two years changed a lot.

But now, I wouldn’t.

Now I knew better. Pride doesn’t keep the lights on. I let it go, rolling away with a mix of relief and shame, telling myself I had bigger things to worry about.

Two years was enough to teach me that self-respect is pretty useless.

Every month, the city squeezed a little more out of me—bills, groceries, and the humiliation of pretending I was fine. You start to compromise: your dignity, your dreams, sometimes even your heart. After a while, you stop counting all the ways you let yourself down.

Aside from a pretty face, I had nothing.

My resume was thin, my bank account thinner. I was one of a million girls hustling to make rent in a city that couldn’t care less. Sometimes, I’d stare at the ceiling and wonder if that was all I’d ever be—a pretty face, nothing else.

So when Derek showed up at my office, all charm and expensive aftershave, I wasn’t even surprised.

He waited by the revolving door, hair artfully messy, leaning against the marble like he owned every lobby in America. I didn’t ask how he knew where I worked. Guys like him always know.

Some people are just born different. They look down on everything, spend money like it’s nothing, and whatever they want comes easy. They think money fixes everything.

I’d seen it with Marcus, too. Money for them wasn’t about comfort—it was about power. Never having to say sorry. Never worrying about consequences. I hated it and wanted it at the same time.

Soon, the sales associate quoted the price.

She recited the total in that soft, reverent voice luxury stores use when they sense a big sale. I tried to do the math in my head, wondering how long it’d take me to pay all this off if I got stuck with the bill.

Numbers spun behind my eyes: what I could do with that kind of cash, how it could change everything, how far it’d go in a city that eats you alive.

If I broke up with Derek, this much money could get me a two-bedroom condo and a decent car. I let myself imagine it: a safe apartment, a car that started every morning, no more stress about groceries.

How nice.

I wondered what it would be like to wake up in a place that was mine, with no fear, no rent check looming over me.

Just then, the sales associate spoke up, a little hesitant.

Her voice shook, eyes darting between us. My stomach dropped.

“Sir, this card…”

Her lips barely moved, but the apology was clear. Everyone in the boutique pretended not to listen, but I could feel the judgment in the air.

The card was declined.

For a second, everything stopped. I felt like I was in a spotlight, every insecurity exposed. Derek’s cheeks went scarlet, and I could almost hear the panic in his head.

He tried to shrug it off, but his hand shook as he put the card away. His confidence was slipping fast.

“Wait for me a second.”

He offered a tight smile and ducked away, thumb flying over his phone.

You could tell he’d done this before—covering embarrassment with bravado, calling for backup when things went sideways.

Afterward, he told me, “My cousin’s nearby, shopping for his fiancée. He’ll be here soon.”

He tried to sound chill, like it was no big deal. I forced a smile, hiding my humiliation.

“Okay.”

I kept my voice even, pretending none of this fazed me, but I felt like I was twelve again, caught without lunch money.

After getting to know Derek, I’d heard about his cousin—always in whispers, like the guy was a legend.

“This guy is something else. Date the Zhou kid if you want, but don’t ever mess with his cousin.”

People’s voices would drop, eyes flicking around like just mentioning Marcus was dangerous. There were always warnings, like he was some kind of local myth.

“I heard he’s got a fiancée, keeps it super secret. She’s loaded, and they’re crazy about each other.”

The rumor mill made it sound like a Netflix drama—secrets, inheritances, forbidden love.

I figured it was all just background noise. I told myself Marcus was my past, and I was done being haunted by his name.

Still, I spent a while prepping myself—how to smile, how to speak.

My mind raced: handshake or a wave? Should I act like we’d never met? I practiced my smile in the boutique’s glass doors, feeling ridiculous and desperate.

But when Marcus walked in, I froze. All my rehearsed lines vanished.

The world shrank to the sound of his shoes on the marble, his unreadable face as he approached. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Derek squeezed my hand, trying to steady me. “Aubrey, call him cousin.”

My voice wavered. “Cousin.”

He barely looked at me. Just a nod, cold as ice.

“Mm.”

He brushed past me. The world tilted, old wounds splitting open.

We were so close—I could smell his cologne, woodsy and expensive. It yanked me back to memories: pizza on his couch, Fourth of July fireworks, the feel of his hand in mine.

He always wore something lighter before, because I liked it. Now it was different—like he’d scrubbed me out of his life, even the way he smelled.

People change. Or they pretend to. Maybe he wore that scent for her now—the fiancée everyone whispered about.

I used to be his girlfriend. Now, I was his cousin’s. The universe had a twisted sense of humor.

And I knew the ride would cost me more than cab fare.