He Tested Me for Seven Years, Then Begged

After my boyfriend confessed that he was the heir to the Godfather, I found a group chat on his phone. It was called: Eleanor Assessment Log. Alessandro's younger brother Marco, his best friend Luca, and his childhood sweetheart Serena. All of them were in it. My fingers trembled as I tapped it open. Marco: "You told her who you really are—what was her reaction?" Luca: "Bet she threw herself at you. Girls like her are a dime a dozen. Wouldn't surprise me if she knew all along and that's why she latched on." Serena: "Doesn't matter. Alessandro's been keeping a ledger of every penny spent on her. She won't walk away with a thing." Alessandro: "Leave it to Serena—she warned me from the start." I scrolled up. The group had been created seven years ago. The day before we got together. Thousands upon thousands of messages. Thousands of photos. Every single one was about me. I'd been treated like a piece of merchandise—examined, appraised, catalogued by these people over and over again. Last week I'd been hospitalized and came up five thousand short. I asked him for help. He said he was tight on cash. Turned me down. But in the group chat, they'd had a field day with it. Luca: "See? Serena called it. The second she finds out who you are, she starts asking for money." Serena: "Ha! I win! I bet she'd ask within a week! @Alessandro, don't forget you owe me a Hermès!" My eyes burned. I dropped the phone and covered my face with both hands. Alessandro happened to walk over just then, his tone breezy and offhand. "What's wrong?" I lifted my head and looked at the face I'd loved for seven years. My lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Alessandro, these seven years—it must have been exhausting, keeping up the act." Panic flickered across his eyes for a split second before his expression hardened, his voice turning cold. "You went through my phone?" I said nothing. His tone softened slightly, carrying that familiar careless dismissal. "Serena and the others made that group as a joke. Don't overthink it." I didn't respond. I stepped around him, bent down, and grabbed the suitcase sitting in the corner. He froze for a moment, then his temper flared. "Eleanor, are you done making a scene?" "First you give me attitude over five thousand, and now you're using this as an excuse to run away from home?" The words drove into me like a needle. He was the one in the wrong, yet somehow he stood there passing judgment on me with a clear conscience. Then again, how could the heir to the Godfather ever be wrong? I didn't feel like arguing. I walked toward the bedroom without another word. My phone chimed—a transfer notification. Five thousand. "There. Money's sent. Quit making a fuss." "I've got a bit of a fever. Go find me some ibuprofen." I stared at the transfer on the screen, my knuckles white around the phone. He'd reduced every one of my emotions to a price tag. Cold. Arrogant. Seven years together, and this was far from the first time. Looking down from on high, as though it were his birthright. Framing requests as commands, disguising orders as concern—as if I were born to orbit around him. But it hadn't always been like this. Not when he was chasing me. Young love—so fierce it was blinding. Back then, he'd clumsily made a handmade ring and confessed his feelings, grinning like a fool as he promised me: "Eleanor, settle for silver for now." "When I propose, I'll swap it out for a ten-carat diamond. I swear." After we got together, he really had been attentive. He remembered every food I couldn't eat. He'd stock up on medicine before the seasons changed. No matter how late he worked, he'd go out of his way to pick me up. So even when he turned up his nose at street food, even when he got picky about the way I lived—I wrote it off as a boyfriend's harmless little vanity. It wasn't until he revealed his identity that I understood. It had been condescension all along. And once I saw that group chat, I was wide awake. Every offhand command he'd tossed my way had been an assignment. A test. All of them hiding behind their screens, running obedience trials on me again and again. I wasn't just his unpaid bedmate. I was a casino prop for their amusement. Seeing me standing there motionless, Alessandro grew impatient. "Take the money and stop standing there like a statue." "You're really going to stage a walkout over five thousand?" "Hurry up and find me a thermometer and some fever meds. My head's about to split open." The absurdity of it all washed over me. I almost laughed out loud. "Alessandro, do you honestly think this is about five thousand?" "Seven years together, and for seven years you people sat in that chat judging me—" He cut me off, voice sharp. "With my identity, is it so wrong to vet someone?" The undisguised contempt on his face. The glaring transfer on the screen. Every mocking line in the group chat. All of it stacked together, a blade twisting in my chest. I fought down the urge to slap him. My hand shook as I tapped Decline. Alessandro's brow furrowed, and he was about to erupt— When the sound of the front door's keypad unlocking cut through the silence. Serena burst in looking frantic, spotted me, faltered for a second, then raised her voice in accusation. "Eleanor, you're home?" "Then why haven't you taken Alessandro to the hospital? He's burning up and you can't even see it?" My voice dripped with sarcasm. "If I'd taken him, you wouldn't have gotten the chance to play Florence Nightingale." Serena immediately switched to the wounded act. "What did I ever do to you? Why are you so hostile toward me?" "Alessandro is sick and all you can think about is being petty and jealous. You really are heartless." The shameless provocation made my stomach churn. I couldn't be bothered with either of them. I took a deep breath. "Alessandro, we're done. I want to break up."

Alessandro's face changed instantly. He panicked. "What did you just say? You're breaking up with me over something like this?" When he saw my composure, the flicker of alarm in his eyes was swiftly buried beneath the irritation of wounded pride. He unlocked his phone, pulled up a memo, and shoved it in my face. "Fine. You want out? Then pay me back for every cent I spent on you these past seven years. Line by line." I lowered my gaze to the memo that seemed to scroll on forever. [2018.5.21 — Coffee, $16. Preliminary assessment: not greedy.] [2019.9.8 — Paid extra $1,800 toward rent. Observe whether dependency develops.] [2021.2.14 — Roses, $9.90. Did not complain. Performance acceptable.] [2022.8.3 — Valentine's gift, $3,000. Extractive tendencies evident.] From the first $9.90 bouquet to a box of toiletries that cost less than twenty dollars. Every transaction logged down to the minute. Seven years of ordinary life, itemized and pinned up like a chain of evidence. Proving I'd been a joke from start to finish. Something clenched around my heart—tightening slowly, then slowly letting go. Alessandro scrolled up and down the screen with his fingertip, his tone dripping magnanimity. "You lived in this apartment rent-free for seven years. Market rate, please." "Utilities split fifty-fifty. Gifts… you can just reimburse me in cash." Back then, he was the one who'd badgered me relentlessly to move in. He complained that my place was too far—half the city away—and that visiting me was a hassle. He said I was always too busy, never had time for him. Afraid I'd feel awkward about it, he even suggested I could put the rent I saved toward buying him gifts. I couldn't say no. I agreed. And now, even that was part of his ledger. Serena stood off to the side, watching me with open contempt. "Spent all that money of Alessandro's and you're going to stand there and say you're not a gold digger?" I ignored her. My eyes locked on Alessandro, and despite everything, the tears came. "These seven years really must have been hard on you." "Keeping up the lovesick-boyfriend act on one hand, while moonlighting as an accountant on the other." A tear fell on his hand. Alessandro pressed his lips together and quickly pocketed his phone. "I was just messing with you. You're the one who threatened to break up." "Just swallow your pride and apologize, and we can drop the whole thing—" I cut him off, my voice rough. "Add it up. Give me a total. I won't owe you a single cent." His Adam's apple bobbed. He clearly hadn't expected me to mean it. After a moment of silence, he flung his phone aside, his tone sharper than before. "You think I need your money?" "They were right all along—you never loved me. You were just after what I had." "Now that you've been found out, you're in a rush to bolt, is that it?" Serena chimed in right on cue. "This is rich. Now she's playing the moral high ground." "Drop the act. Without Alessandro bankrolling you, do you really think you'd be living this well?" Rage surged straight to the top of my skull. I barely held back the urge to slap them both. These people who treated the world like their playground—who mistook someone else's sincerity for a paid experience. In their eyes, I was nothing more than a toy Alessandro had picked up on a whim. Once the novelty wore off, it was time to take inventory of the damage and settle the tab. I had poured seven years of my life into this relationship. And Alessandro had never once bothered to see me for who I really was. What a joke. I gripped the suitcase handle until my knuckles ached, forcing the fury back down. Without looking at either of them, I dragged the suitcase straight into the bedroom. I pulled open a drawer. A jumble of small things spilled into view. Movie ticket stubs. Amusement park passes. Little notes of concern he'd scribbled on sticky pads. A faded Polaroid with curling edges. I stared at the photo for a few seconds, then flipped it face down and left it at the bottom of the drawer. I wasn't taking it. If the love was never real, what good were souvenirs? Serena followed me in and stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me pack. Every now and then she clicked her tongue. "That blouse—Alessandro bought that for you, didn't he?" "Those mugs are a matching set. Bit awkward to take those, don't you think?" "The bracelet was his birthday gift. Make sure you leave it behind…" I turned and fixed her with a flat stare. "You want them? They're all yours." "It's not just the mugs you've had your eye on, after all." Serena's face cycled through shades of red and white, her voice climbing to a shrill pitch. "Who wants your junk! I just don't want you parading around as Alessandro's ex-girlfriend, scamming people!" "I'm telling you—anything connected to him, you don't get to take a single piece!" She paused, then let out a cold snort. "Eleanor, you're not trying to use this whole performance to manipulate Alessandro, are you?" Alessandro's pupils contracted. His gaze settled on me, dark and heavy. "Eleanor, are you sure about this?" "The second you walk out that door, we are officially over." His tone was probing, threaded with the fragility of someone unwell. That look on his face made the world tilt for a moment. It reminded me of the old days—feverish, half-delirious, clinging to me like a child… But the more vivid the memory, the sharper the disconnect with the man standing in front of me. I zipped the suitcase shut and straightened up to face him. "You're the heir to the Godfather. How could someone like me possibly be worthy?" "Don't waste any more of your precious time on an ordinary person like me." The composure on his face cracked instantly. His jaw clenched so tight the muscles stood out. "Even if we're breaking up, I should be the one doing it!" "I'm Alessandro Falcone. Who do you think you are, looking down on me?" He'd grown accustomed to being adored, coddled, deferred to. As if I'd been born to gaze up at him and gratefully catch whatever scraps of affection he tossed my way. But I was tired. I was done playing along. I didn't respond. I dragged the suitcase toward the door. Behind me came his barely contained roar. "Eleanor, I'm seriously angry now!" My steps didn't falter. "You'll regret this!" Regret? The only thing I regretted was that it took me seven years to see this "love" for what it was—a transaction with a price tag already attached. Being treated like a suspect under surveillance, every single day—I didn't want to live like that for one more second.

I hauled my suitcase into the first cheap hotel I could find. Seven years of devotion. One long dream. I felt wrung out to the bone. I was asleep within minutes. The next morning, I went to the office like always. My department head called me in. His expression was odd. "That contract we finalized—the client changed their mind this morning. Specifically requested you handle the follow-up." He hesitated, his tone edging into careful. "Have you… pissed someone off?" I took the contract and understood immediately. No one but Alessandro would have done this. I'd dumped him and he wouldn't let it go—so he was using my job as leverage to force me to bend the knee. No prizes for guessing which of his idiot friends cooked up that brilliant idea. Seeing my silence, my boss sighed and laid it out. "Your work has always been solid, but every time you were up for promotion, someone upstairs killed it. Your salary hasn't budged either…" "This time, just… be smart about it." A chill seeped through me. So that's how it was. All these years I'd been running in place because someone had been giving me "special attention" behind the scenes. It wasn't as though I'd never been tempted by offers from other companies. It was Alessandro who'd talked me out of leaving, again and again—telling me he didn't want me overworking myself, that he'd take care of everything. He knew I'd poured my heart and soul into my career, and still he'd methodically blocked every path forward. Capping my salary. Killing my promotions. Trapping me in place. Forcing me to play the "gold digger" who had no choice but to ask him for money. That way, he could stand above me forever. How absurd that for seven years, every aspect of my life had been under his control. And now he was stooping to these pathetic tactics to drag me back to his side. I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat and looked up at my boss. "Understood. I'll head over for the meeting now." When I pushed open the conference room door, the last shred of hope I'd been clinging to evaporated. Of course it was Alessandro. Serena was right beside him, wearing an expression that said she'd bought front-row seats to the show. Luca sat nearby, watching me with open amusement. "See? Told you this would get her here!" "Gotta hand it to you, Eleanor—real backbone. The boys crack a few jokes in a group chat and you dump our Godfather's heir, just like that?" I ignored him. My gaze landed squarely on Alessandro's face. He glanced up, his tone carrying the usual air of benevolence. "Had enough fun? Sit down. Let's talk this out." Serena stifled a laugh behind her hand. "You can drop the attitude now. This whole deal hangs on one word from Alessandro." "Throw your little tantrum now, sure—but when you lose your job, I'd love to see how you cope." I didn't take the bait. My eyes stayed on Alessandro. "My promotion was blocked three times. My salary hasn't moved in five years. That was you?" Alessandro's gaze shifted, his voice tinged with impatience. "You're too blunt. If you actually climbed the ladder, you'd never survive the politics up there." "I've been taking care of you. A comfortable life, no stress—what's wrong with that?" Serena looked me up and down with a sidelong glance. "You really think you're that talented? If Alessandro hadn't put in a word for you, with that meek little personality of yours, you'd have been fired eight hundred times over." "He saved your job and you can't even be grateful? Now you're going to blame him? Talk about biting the hand that feeds you." I actually laughed. "Grateful? Grateful that you all treated me like a toy?" Alessandro frowned, looking at me the way you'd look at a child throwing a tantrum. "Eleanor, don't push your luck!" "Come home tonight, be good, and I'll let the past slide. The contract gets signed as planned, and I'll have someone push your promotion through." I looked at his imperious posture and suddenly felt how pointless all of this was. When two people don't speak the same language, even half a sentence is too many. I tossed the contract in front of him. "Contract's right there. Sign it or don't—your call." "Alessandro, don't make me lose what little respect I have left for you." Outside the building, my phone buzzed softly in my pocket. I tapped the screen. An email from overseas. An acceptance letter from the Royal College of Art. An application I'd submitted six months ago. At the time, it was just supposed to be an escape hatch from a life that had gone stale. I never expected it to become my way out. Seven years in Easton City. One long dream. The dream was over. It was time to move forward.