The Boyfriend Who Faked a Business Trip Lives Next Door with the Fake Heiress Chapter 02

The Boyfriend Who Faked a Business Trip Lives Next Door with the Fake Heiress Chapter 02

Through tears, I looked out the window at the road that split the slum from the villas like a line of chalk.

I’d never paid much attention to the mansion across the street. Figured it had nothing to do with me.

But now I looked closer. And damn, the difference was night and day—just like how he treated me versus Violet.

The villa blazed with light. Laughter and shrieks drifted over. Even the doormat was something Donovan had flown overseas to pick out.

My shack? Leaky roof, floor a disaster zone. The only thing of Donovan’s in it was the allergy meds he’d just dropped—expired four years ago.

Five years. Ten visits. He’d stay one night and leave by morning.

“Clara, I’ve got overtime tomorrow. The more I work, the sooner I can save up to marry you.”

“Clara, the company’s in a slump. Haven’t been paid in five months. I’m sorry you have to keep struggling.”

“Clara, I love you. I’ll make it up to you. I swear.”

All those sweet promises—they were the only thing that got me through five years of long-distance hell.

And all along, he was right across the street. Living with Violet. For five years.

I pulled out my phone and unblocked Violet’s Instagram.

Her latest post: “What Lady Gray wants—” Paired with a photo of the Black Swan cake and the one-hundred-thirty-thousand-dollar bag.

Donovan’s comment: “—Lady Gray gets.”

I kept scrolling. Jewelry. Designer clothes. You name it.

She wanted. He made sure she got.

I never said I wanted anything. Because Violet always made damn sure I understood I couldn’t have it.

Elementary school: I wanted a doll. She cut every single one I owned to shreds in front of me.

High school: I wanted my parents to know I was their real daughter. She had them kick me out on my eighteenth birthday and cut all ties.

So I learned to keep my mouth shut.

But Donovan encouraged me to speak up. “Clara deserves the best.”

So I tested the waters. Told him I wanted him to like me. Wanted a birthday gift.

The gift was cheap. But it made me ridiculously happy.

Looking back now? Pathetic gift. Pathetic me.

I tortured myself scrolling through Violet’s feed. Found one from five years ago:

“What Lady Gray wants: Clara to have hope—and then lose it all over again.”

And the reply: “—Lady Gray gets.”

I stared at those words. Laughed like an idiot. Tears streaming down my face.

“Clara, you are the dumbest person on planet Earth.”

“Did you really think someone could love you? Did you really think you could have something nice?”

“Look at you now. Played like a fiddle.”

The part of me Donovan had filled up was just… ripped out. Leaving a bloody hole even bigger than before. Everything caved in.

I broke open the four-years-expired pills and chewed them dry.

Bitter as hell.

I sat there in the puddle on my floor, watching the villa like the little match girl peeking through someone else’s window at their happy life.

The rain stopped. Fireworks exploded across the sky, spelling out words:

“Happy 25th Birthday, Lady Gray. —Donovan.”

And under the fireworks, two figures wrapped around each other. They looked perfect. They looked happy.

A loud pop. My light went out. The neighbors started cussing.

“Damn rich assholes! Blow the grid again with their stupid fireworks!”

I could’ve dealt with the dark and the cold—the usual blackouts. If I hadn’t known they happened because Donovan was busy making Violet happy.

The fireworks kept going. I used the light to find the discounted pasta I’d bought.

Water on. Noodles in.

After a second, I cracked an egg in. My last one.

It was my birthday, too. Not that anyone gave a damn.

I could’ve handled spending my birthday alone. If I hadn’t been sitting in the glow of fireworks Donovan set off for someone else.

I buried my face in my hands and sobbed. “Please… doesn’t anyone want to keep me company? I’m so alone…”

My phone lit up. Violet. She’d noticed I unblocked her.

“Little rat finally pokes her head out of the sewer? Then sit tight and watch how a real Lady Gray lives.”

A second later, she video-called me. I answered on autopilot.

Violet was wrapped in Donovan’s arms on screen, grinning like a shark.

“Lala, you haven’t given her a birthday present yet, have you? Say happy birthday. Put a nice ribbon on five years of long-distance suffering.”

Donovan’s throat bobbed. His expression got complicated.

Violet nudged him, bratty as always. “I know you don’t want to. Just throw her a bone. Look at her. She’s practically a stray dog.”

I watched Donovan. He watched me.

Finally, he said: “Clara…”

He didn’t get to finish. Violet grabbed his collar and kissed him.

The sounds—soft, wet, intimate—filtered through the speaker. I sat there like a statue, watching them make out in the middle of her party.

I hung up.

Then I opened Twitter.

I’d made the account forever ago, trying to start some kind of side hustle. Posted about my life. Tried to sell this “hustle hard” persona.

Basically no followers. Just like my real life.

I went live to an empty room, fireworks bursting outside, and started eating my pasta—already a sad, clumpy mess.

And I talked.

“My name is Clara Gray. My story’s pretty pathetic. I’m the real heiress who lost everything to the fake one.”

“Today’s my twenty-fifth birthday. I was going to buy a house. Propose to my long-distance boyfriend of five years.”

The egg yolk stuck in my throat. I couldn’t swallow.

A few viewers trickled in. No one said anything.

I finished the last of my soup broth and kept going.

“Turns out he’d been lying to me from day one. He’s rich. He’s been living with the fake heiress in the villa across from my slum.”

“In the winter, I wouldn’t even turn on the heat. I washed my hair under a frozen spigot. Saved up thirty grand—and he spent it on a bag for her.”

More viewers. Still no one typed a word.

I laughed at myself. “Guess I really am worthless. Not even strangers on the internet will tell me happy birthday or say something nice…”

The fireworks got louder. I held up my phone so everyone could see.

“Look. That’s for her.”

The last one fizzled out. “Nine hundred ninety-nine fireworks,” I whispered. “Every single one saying happy birthday to her.”

Then: darkness. Silence. Cold.

My phone battery hit critical. Thirty seconds left.

“So cold,” I mumbled. My eyes were glassy.

In the final seconds of my stream, a match fell onto the bedsheet.

“I wish…” I stopped. “Never mind. I don’t have any wishes left.”

Flames caught. I closed my eyes.