Paid to Disappear on His Proposal Night - Chapter 4: Chapter 4
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When I first met Darryl, I never mentioned my family's financial situation—and he never really asked, except for that one offhand comment.
It happened when I brought some of my dad's crab-filled buns to school. Darryl devoured them and joked between bites, "These are amazing. Your parents don't run a food stall or something, do they?"
I laughed and played along, saying yes. He never brought it up again.
Looking back, I realize he probably believed it. He must have pictured my parents as struggling street vendors. Maybe that's why he never saw a future with me, even back then.
Everything he did reinforced that assumption. Whenever I tried to help him financially or surprise him with gifts, he'd scold me for "wasting money," telling me to be mindful of how hard my parents worked. When I decided to pursue illustration, he hesitated but eventually said, "Follow your heart—I'll handle the rest," even though he was barely scraping by on $2,000 a month.
My parents were speechless when they found out. At least they were relieved I hadn't married him—grateful I'd dodged that bullet.
One night, I called my best friend, who was away on business. We needed to figure out how to handle moving out.
Here's the kicker: The apartment Darryl was living in? It was mine.
Back when he was drowning in student loans, juggling internships by day and food deliveries by night, he'd been stuck in a shoebox of a room in a crumbling rental. I couldn't stand it, so I used my allowance to buy a two-bedroom near his work. I even staged the whole thing—had a classmate tell him her "cousin" was renting it out cheap just to have someone manage the place. A thousand yuan a month, and he jumped at it. I moved in with him.
We'd been living together for nearly a year. And yet, as I packed my things, it hit me: We'd always slept in separate rooms. Nothing romantic. Ever.
My best friend was livid when she heard everything. "Once I wrap up here," she seethed, "I'm coming back, and we're dealing with that loser together."
While I waited for her, I treated myself to all the food I'd denied myself with Darryl. I'd been living paycheck to paycheck, refusing my parents' help, eating the blandest meals, wearing the plainest clothes—even teaching myself to cook, something I'd never cared about before. Looking back, I couldn't believe how much I'd sacrificed for him.
I'd given him my whole heart. And for what?
During those days, I took on a commission—a mother who wanted her daughter's dream turned into art. I'd majored in business, not art, but illustration had always been my passion. When I discovered dream illustration, I fell in love with the idea. My parents supported me unconditionally. "Just be happy," they'd say.
Darryl had said the same once. Called it a "great career," something that would let me be present for our future kids.
But now I knew the truth: He'd never respected my work. While keeping me on the back burner, he'd been shopping for my replacement.
My best friend flew back that weekend, coming straight to my place from the airport. After dinner, we hired movers and headed to confront Darryl.
The apartment keycode was unchanged—typical Darryl—but when we stepped inside, he wasn't there.
Then I pushed open my bedroom door.
A bald, shirtless man sprawled across my bed, his rough, sun-darkened skin on full display as he lazily scrolled through his phone. His legs were casually crossed, and the heavy breathing from his phone made it disgustingly clear what he was watching.
Rage burned through me. "Who the hell are you?" I snapped. "How did you get in here?"
It happened when I brought some of my dad's crab-filled buns to school. Darryl devoured them and joked between bites, "These are amazing. Your parents don't run a food stall or something, do they?"
I laughed and played along, saying yes. He never brought it up again.
Looking back, I realize he probably believed it. He must have pictured my parents as struggling street vendors. Maybe that's why he never saw a future with me, even back then.
Everything he did reinforced that assumption. Whenever I tried to help him financially or surprise him with gifts, he'd scold me for "wasting money," telling me to be mindful of how hard my parents worked. When I decided to pursue illustration, he hesitated but eventually said, "Follow your heart—I'll handle the rest," even though he was barely scraping by on $2,000 a month.
My parents were speechless when they found out. At least they were relieved I hadn't married him—grateful I'd dodged that bullet.
One night, I called my best friend, who was away on business. We needed to figure out how to handle moving out.
Here's the kicker: The apartment Darryl was living in? It was mine.
Back when he was drowning in student loans, juggling internships by day and food deliveries by night, he'd been stuck in a shoebox of a room in a crumbling rental. I couldn't stand it, so I used my allowance to buy a two-bedroom near his work. I even staged the whole thing—had a classmate tell him her "cousin" was renting it out cheap just to have someone manage the place. A thousand yuan a month, and he jumped at it. I moved in with him.
We'd been living together for nearly a year. And yet, as I packed my things, it hit me: We'd always slept in separate rooms. Nothing romantic. Ever.
My best friend was livid when she heard everything. "Once I wrap up here," she seethed, "I'm coming back, and we're dealing with that loser together."
While I waited for her, I treated myself to all the food I'd denied myself with Darryl. I'd been living paycheck to paycheck, refusing my parents' help, eating the blandest meals, wearing the plainest clothes—even teaching myself to cook, something I'd never cared about before. Looking back, I couldn't believe how much I'd sacrificed for him.
I'd given him my whole heart. And for what?
During those days, I took on a commission—a mother who wanted her daughter's dream turned into art. I'd majored in business, not art, but illustration had always been my passion. When I discovered dream illustration, I fell in love with the idea. My parents supported me unconditionally. "Just be happy," they'd say.
Darryl had said the same once. Called it a "great career," something that would let me be present for our future kids.
But now I knew the truth: He'd never respected my work. While keeping me on the back burner, he'd been shopping for my replacement.
My best friend flew back that weekend, coming straight to my place from the airport. After dinner, we hired movers and headed to confront Darryl.
The apartment keycode was unchanged—typical Darryl—but when we stepped inside, he wasn't there.
Then I pushed open my bedroom door.
A bald, shirtless man sprawled across my bed, his rough, sun-darkened skin on full display as he lazily scrolled through his phone. His legs were casually crossed, and the heavy breathing from his phone made it disgustingly clear what he was watching.
Rage burned through me. "Who the hell are you?" I snapped. "How did you get in here?"
End of Paid to Disappear on His Proposal Night Chapter 4. Continue reading Chapter 5 or return to Paid to Disappear on His Proposal Night book page.