The words landed between us. Heavy. Honest. Like the first bit of unbiased truth being shared between us.
“I told myself I was being careful,” he continued. “That I was protecting myself. That this was a business arrangement and I’d be stupid not to consider every possibility.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “But the truth is… I was scared to think of you in any other way.”
“Scared?” I asked, surprised, even though he mentioned being scared before.
He nodded.
“If I let myself believe that you weren’t here for the money,” he said, “then it meant you might actually care about me.”
My heart thudded painfully against my ribs.
“And that terrified me. I told myself that if you were in this for the money,” he went on, “then I wouldn’t have to risk anything. I wouldn’t have to risk believing you chose me.”
"I believe in choice," he said carefully. "People choosing each other every day."
His thumb brushed along my cheek again, hesitant now. “I convinced myself it was safer to assume the worst."
I took a slow breath, trying and failing to calm my racing heart. When I told him he'd need to grovel, this was not at all what I was expecting. He was baring his soul to me, and it made it that much easier for me to bridge the gap and do the same.
“I do love that you’re rich,” I said honestly. His eyes flickered, guarded instinctively. I tightened my grip on his wrist before he could think of pulling away again.
“But not the way you think,” I added quickly.
His expression softened just slightly. “Then tell me the way you mean.”
I hesitated. This wasn’t the cute, teasing version of the truth. This wasn’t me joking about spending his money or demanding diamonds. This was the ugly, vulnerable part that could make me seem even more materialistic.
“My ex was financially challenged,” I began. "That's my nice way of saying he was broke."
Callahan’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t interrupt.
“He wasn’t just broke,” I clarified. “He was miserable. And he made sure I felt miserable too.”
The memories rose up whether I wanted them to or not.
“He hated that I liked nice things. Nothing outrageous. Just… a good bag. A new dress every once in a while. Hardcover books instead of paperbacks.”
Callahan’s thumb stilled against my cheek.
“He’d sigh every time I bought something for myself,” I continued. “Like my happiness was irresponsible. Like wantingsomething better made me shallow even though I was spending my own money.”
My voice stayed steady, but beneath it, my chest fluttered with the threat of tears.
“He’d say things like, ‘If you really loved me, you wouldn’t care about money.’ And for a while, I believed him. I stopped treating myself. I stopped talking about what I wanted. I felt guilty every time I enjoyed something. It's not like I pressured him to spend money on me; it was quite the opposite. I encouraged him to save, to chase his dreams, to explore whatever career made him happy, but it still wasn't enough. I was willing to build with him, but he was too caught up in appearances to notice.”
Callahan’s hand tightened slightly where it rested against my face.
“After him, every guy I dated treated money like it was everything. They either obsessed over how much they made or how much I made. Or they felt threatened by it. Or they used it as leverage to control the relationship.”
I gave him a small, tired smile. “So I started doing the same. I started looking at men through the same lens they were looking at me.”
“Through money,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
It sounded ugly when I said it out loud. But it was true.
