The Gold Digger's Exit Strategy Chapter 2

To be fair, Julian had saved me once.

When I met him, I was working at a car wash.

To avoid the constant sexual harassment from my male coworkers, I started dressing hideously on day two. I even bought a pair of ugly, thick-rimmed glasses.

But I hadn't mentioned this: I am objectively beautiful.

And specifically poor.

A beautiful girl with no money is like a child holding a gold bar in a busy market—you can hide, but you can’t escape the covetous eyes.

The day Julian showed up, the guys had "accidentally" sprayed me with the high-pressure hose. I looked like a drowned rat.

My t-shirt was soaked under my waterproof apron, clinging to my bra. They laughed and told me to just take it off.

I stood there, freezing, refusing to move. One of them got close and pinched my cheek.

"So you aren't wearing makeup. You really are that pale. Soft, too."

I was mentally calculating if my remaining $60 could cover the damages if I punched them.

That’s when Julian honked.

His car was finished, parked nearby. I didn't know how long he’d been sitting there or how much he’d seen.

His voice was impatient. "Who washed this? The interior is still damp."

The guys shoved me forward. "Sorry, sir. The new girl is clumsy. We'll have her fix it right up for you."

I shook the water off my clothes.

Standing by his door, I hesitated. Should I change first? I didn't want to ruin his leather seats.

Julian chuckled softly, leaning down toward me. "You shake off water like a puppy."

I froze, unsure if he was mocking me or being kind.

Then, his smile faded. He reached into the back seat and handed me a shopping bag. It was a brand I didn't recognize, clothes still with tags.

"Go change. Those guys are pricks. They did that on purpose."

When I hesitated, he scratched his head, looking embarrassed. "Just broke up with my girlfriend. Never got to give her these. Don't worry, I'm not a creep."

By the time I changed and came back out, Julian was gone.

I snuck a look at the customer log to find his number.

It took me until the next day to work up the courage to text him. I thanked him for standing up for me and told him I'd washed and sanitized the clothes. If he didn't mind, I could return them.

Originally, to show some backbone, I wanted to buy them from him. But after Googling the brand and realizing the price was my annual salary, I decided returning them was the wiser option.

Julian replied quickly, asking to meet at an overpriced coffee shop near the university.

We met a few times after that.

I learned—or confirmed—that his family was filthy rich.

He was born into love and money, a genetic lottery winner with a trust fund and model looks.

In the first month, he got me a job as a library assistant at the university. No dirty jokes, just stressed students with dark circles under their eyes.

By month three, we were officially dating.

I drove Julian’s new sports car back to the car wash, purely out of spite. I bossed around the guys who used to harass me.

I thought it would feel amazing.

Okay, it felt a little amazing.

But the thrill faded fast. The petty satisfaction was replaced by emptiness when I saw the speculation in their eyes.

I was a fox borrowing the tiger’s might, sitting in someone else’s car, with nowhere to go.

Was shallow revenge really all I wanted?