Testing Love, Proving Power Chapter 1

At ten, I learned my billionaire father was unfaithful. My mother left, telling me before she died:

"Rich men are heartless, Olivia. But if you can, marry a poor one."

So when my startup-boyfriend kept failing, I stayed.

First bankruptcy: Sold my guitar, became a bar singer.

Second: Traded singing for serving drinks in a short skirt.

Third: He shoved a $300K IOU at me.

As I debated calling Dad, I overheard Ethan boasting:

"She's paying my debts. Next step? Maybe selling herself—though I'd draw the line there."

Smiling, I called my father:

"Thanks for the texts. I'm coming home."

* * *

I hung up the phone.

The muffled laughter from inside the private room was starting to grate on my nerves.

As I turned to leave, the door swung open.

Ethan stood there. He was clearly surprised to see me, freezing for a split second before his expression morphed into one of carefully crafted distress.

“Liv,” he started, his voice heavy with false regret, “I’m so sorry. My startup failed again. This time, I owe… three hundred thousand dollars.”

His performance was flawless. He gestured vaguely at the room behind him. “I just asked all my friends. No one is willing to help me. You’re the only one I can count on now.”

I looked at his head-to-toe designer clothes, then down at my own ridiculously short work uniform, chosen specifically to sell more drinks.

The irony was suffocating.

A cold laugh escaped my lips. “I’ve already given you all my savings. How else do you expect me to help? Sell me? Sell my body to pay off your debts?”

We had been together for three years. In that time, he’d gone bankrupt twice, and both times, I was the one who bailed him out.

The first time, to make extra money, I worked my nine-to-five desk job during the day and spent my nights running between bars, my guitar my only companion. Ethan had watched me, his eyes red with unshed tears, and swore he would give me the world one day.

The second time, I sold the limited-edition guitar my mother had given me, quit my stable job, and became a full-time cocktail waitress, all for that pathetic sixty-cent commission per beer.

Just a few days ago, I had finally paid off his last mountain of debt. I thought we could finally be together without that constant, crushing weight.

But now, a third failure, and a new three-hundred-thousand-dollar debt, had arrived right on schedule.

If I hadn’t overheard that conversation, I might have continued to believe his lie—that every debt, every failure, was just a stepping stone to a better future for us.

Who could have guessed it was all an elaborate, cruel game designed just for me? My unwavering love was nothing but a series of tests for his amusement.

Ethan’s brow furrowed. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the door opened again. His sycophantic friends spilled out.

“Hey, Olivia. So, Ethan’s in the hole for another three hundred K. When do you think you can pay it off? How about this—I’ll buy you… and all your drinks for the night. Consider it me helping you with the debt.”

“I call dibs on her… drinks tomorrow! I’ll pay double.”

“Don’t worry, Olivia. Ethan won’t mind. We’re just trying to help you out, you know?”

They smirked, their words dripping with innuendo, as they bid on me like I was a piece of meat. And they had the gall to say they were “helping.”

A bitter smile touched my lips. I looked at Ethan.

He just stood there, impassive, his face a mask of anticipation, as if waiting for my answer.

In that moment, the last shred of affection I had for him evaporated.

I nodded, my voice devoid of emotion.

“Sure. Cash or credit?”

Ethan flinched, clearly not expecting that. In his mind, I was poor, yes, but I had standards. I would never sell myself for money.

His face darkened, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“Olivia,” he said, his voice cold, “we can find another way. You don’t have to say things like that just to spite me. If you’re really thinking of selling yourself to pay this off, I’d rather let the loan sharks break my legs!”

He turned and walked away.

Watching his retreating back, I couldn't tell if he was genuinely disappointed in me, or if this was just another tactic to force my hand.

It didn’t matter anymore.

The main actor had left the stage. His friends, losing interest, dispersed without another word about buying drinks.

I let out a self-deprecating laugh and went to find the bar manager.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I need to quit.”