My Fake-Broke Boyfriend Was My Content Goldmine

1
Marcel was a trust-fund kid playing poor to date me. It was all a cruel little game, something for him and his buddies to laugh about.
I knew all of this. I knew the script by heart.
But even knowing Marcel was a liar, even as I worked three jobs to support his lazy ass, I didn't complain. How could I? My entire online brand was built on being the "ultimate ride-or-die girlfriend," the girl who’d do anything for her man.
And let's be honest, with a face like Marcel’s, he was premium content.
But I'm also a realist. In the world of internet fame, you have to keep things fresh if you want to stay relevant.
So, when Marcel finally decided to drop the act, pulling his childhood sweetheart, Amy, into a nauseating embrace right in front of me, I was ready. I simply pulled out my phone—already live-streaming—and let the waterworks begin.
“Hey fam,” I sobbed into the camera, “this is the ninety-ninth time he’s cheated on me. I think... I think I’m finally done.”
“Drop some hearts in the chat if you think I should dump him for good!”
…
Crestwood had been drowning in rain for weeks. I stumbled home, soaked and miserable, just in time to overhear Marcel on the phone. The door to our rundown apartment was so flimsy his voice bled right through it.
“Yeah, she’s out delivering food even in this downpour. Says she makes more during peak hours.”
A pause.
“For my birthday a few days ago? She got me a bottle of designer cologne. She must be totally broke now.”
Another chuckle.
“Her birthday? I gave her a plastic ring from a gumball machine. You’d think I gave her the moon, she was so touched.”
He was really getting into it now.
“Friends? Please. She doesn’t have any. Her entire world revolves around me.”
“Honestly, though, it’s getting a little boring. She’s just… too easy.”
“I’ll give it a little longer. Once I’m completely tired of her, I’ll dump her.”
His voice was a lazy, self-satisfied drawl. And why wouldn't it be? He had a complete doormat worshiping the ground he walked on, a doormat who worked herself to the bone to pay his bills and validate his ego.
Instead of anger, a different kind of thrill shot through me. I waited patiently for him to hang up before turning the key in the lock.
When I walked in, he flinched, quickly pocketing his phone.
“You… you just get back?” he asked, a flicker of panic in his eyes.
I played my part, feigning ignorance as I collapsed onto the worn-out welcome mat. “Yeah, I’m exhausted.” Then, I beamed, a perfect picture of naive devotion. “But I made an extra fifty bucks today! We can get something nice for dinner!”
I threw my arms around him, and I felt the tension leave his body as he realized I hadn’t heard a thing.
Later that night, as Marcel washed the dishes from our takeout spicy noodle bowls, I snuck a picture from behind him. The photo captured half of my face, smiling softly, and the sharp, beautiful line of his jaw.
I crafted the perfect caption: “With you, even a cheap bowl of noodles feels like a feast. ”
Marcel was used to my constant photo-ops and gushing social media posts. It was all part of the act. A girl this pathetically devoted was a rare find, and he was more than happy to play along, encouraging my obsession.
I posted the photo, set my phone to silent, and curled up next to him on the lumpy sofa to watch some dumb TV show.
Within the hour, the post was already gaining traction. Most of the comments, as usual, were calling me an idiot.
A few defenders would pop up:
“She’s just having noodles with her boyfriend… why is everyone being so mean?”
And they’d be immediately shut down:
“Dude, you need to check her post history. This girl is a case study in terminal desperation.”
“She works three jobs to support this guy, even after catching him sexting his ‘childhood friend.’ She’s a lost cause.”
Soon, the thread was a waterfall of people pitying me, disgusted by my lack of self-respect.
I couldn’t have cared less.
A new message had just popped up in my DMs from a potential sponsor.
“Hi Mae, we love your content! Would you be interested in promoting our new couples’ app?”
“Compensation is negotiable.”
I snuggled deeper into Marcel’s arms, a genuine smile gracing my lips as I typed back a reply.
He nudged my chin. “What are you smiling about?”
I squeezed his hand, my voice full of manufactured excitement. “I just got an offer for a one-day gig tomorrow! Another fifty bucks!” I declared proudly. “Once I save up enough, I’m taking my baby out for a proper dinner!”
Marcel was hiding his real life from me, and I was hiding my real job from him. Seemed fair.
I’d known from the start what a nasty piece of work Marcel was. I knew this whole relationship was a game to him. But damn, that face of his was a work of art. Among the guys in my orbit back then, he was on another level.
My name is Mae. The matron at the orphanage gave it to me. I was left on their doorstep in the dead of winter, right when the single, stubborn plum tree in their courtyard decided to bloom against all odds.
So yes, I was genuinely poor. No trust fund, no magic wand. I grew up in the system, bounced around rural foster homes, with no family connections and no knack for academics. When I first tried to make it as a content creator, I got zero traction. So when a guy like Marcel wandered into my life, even knowing his motives, I was more than willing to play his game.
After all, any video with his face in it got an insane amount of views.
But I’ve been poor for too long. It makes you greedy. So, not a single penny of the money I earned online ever made its way to Marcel. If he knew, he’d find a way to make my life a living hell. He fed on my misery, like a handsome parasite.

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