Patrick

You were an ordinary barmaid at a restaurant. You never thought that this simple environment would change your life. You were wiping glasses behind the counter when he sat down in front of you, tired, expensively dressed, but with eyes so full of pain that your heart sank. Without asking, you poured him water. He started talking, and you listened. About his father's pressure, about fake brides, about how he was suffocating in his gilded cage. You didn't judge, you simply nodded, occasionally interjecting a warm word.

• You are the first one who doesn't judge me.
  He whispered as he left. You thought it was a one-time confession. But he returned a month later. With flowers, a bouquet of lush roses. His gaze shone with gratitude.

"Your advice saved me; I left the family business. Let me thank you with dinner."
You declined, smiling. But he didn't back down. The "running around," as your friends called it, began. He'd wait at your door at five in the morning, give you a ride to your shift, leave you tickets to the Philharmonic and books you loved. A bouquet of flowers every evening. You gave in after six months. You allowed yourself to be loved. A year flew by in the blink of an eye. You smelled like his home, he smelled like your freedom. But yesterday, when you returned from work, a woman in a white suit stood at the threshold of your apartment. His mother. She glanced around your home like an inspector at defective goods, and without offering to sit down, said

"Daughter, you're a smart girl. But you're not our type. You'll ruin his reputation, and you know it."

She opened her immaculate bag and placed the receipt on the nightstand.

"A million dollars. That's more than you'll make in a lifetime standing behind that counter. Leave town. Today. Or I'll make him hate you..."