To Love a Broken Man

Chloe was my college girlfriendor rather, the girl I paid to date me.

Though I never treated her as a plaything, that's how others saw us.

No one believed a rich kid would truly love someone from her world.

Then I dumped her without explanation.

Years later, we met againI was a masseur at a luxury spa, and she, now a millionaire, booked me for a private session.

After graduation, my family went bankrupt.

My father fled with his mistress.

That same year, I killed a man in "excessive self-defense" and served two years in prison.

Inside, an old inmate taught me therapeutic massage.

Now, at the spa, former socialites who once chased me book sessions just to humiliate me.

I endure itI need the money.

Today, as I was about to leave, the manager called, Justin, VIP Suite 999. A major client requested you. Nail this, and you might not need to work all year."

"On my way."

I grabbed the kit I'd just packed up, a knot of apprehension tightening in my gut.

The wealthier the client, the higher the chance they were a creep.

Just this morning, I'd had a session with a woman who had to be over four hundred pounds.

She'd periodically slap me across the face as I worked on her.

A thousand dollars a slap.

So, I endured it.

I knocked on the door to 999.

Come in.

The voice was cool and young. I opened the door and saw a woman sitting on the living room sofa, dressed in a sleek black power suit.

Her long hair cascaded loosely over her shoulders, a touch of languor that created a striking contrast with the sharp, professional lines of her attire.

Her face was breathtaking.

More beautiful than I remembered from college. She'd been gorgeous then, but with a lingering innocence. Now, she possessed the captivating allure of a woman in full bloom.

It was her.

Chloe.

The girl I had kept in college.

Back then, her world had fallen apart. Her father, a construction worker, had been seriously injured on a job site, but the contractor skipped town without paying a cent.

Faced with suffocating medical bills, she'd considered dropping out of school.

Her mother, however, insisted she stay, saying it would be a waste for the family's brightest to quit.

So, her underachieving younger brother dropped out instead and got a job at a bar.

One night, some thug's girlfriend looked at him a little too long, and the thug and his friends broke her brother's legs.

The shock sent her mother into a spiral, and she was hospitalized with a severe illness.

Suddenly, the weight of her entire family landed on Chloe's shoulders.

It was a burden so heavy that a young college student saw only one way out: selling her body.

The campus rumor mill painted me as a playboy with deep pockets.

I had, in fact, tried to flirt with her once, but she'd turned me down.

I left her alone after that, I was more talk than action, a smart-ass who liked to flirt but never pushed it.

But then, she found me. In front of a crowd of people, she announced she would be my girlfriend, on one condition: I had to lend her five hundred thousand dollars.

I agreed to the loan but told her she didn't have to be my girlfriend.

I wasn't the kind of guy who took advantage of someone's desperation.

But the day I transferred the money, she showed up at my door.

I was living in a sprawling penthouse I'd bought off-campus.

It was raining, and the downpour had soaked her white blouse, making it cling to her. I wanted to look, but I didn't have the nerve.

I let her in, found her some dry clothes, and we sat in silence.

She was the one who finally broke it.

Justin, until I pay back that five hundred thousand, I'm yours. When the debt is clear, you can give me my freedom back.

I wanted to tell her it was unnecessary, that the money meant less to me than what I'd spend tipping some streamer in a week.

But I knew that would crush her pride.

So instead, I said, Then you can be my housekeeper.

From that day on, Chloe lived with me. She cooked my meals, managed my life, and even cleaned me up when I came home blind drunk.

The girls who chased me were relentless, constantly harassing her, calling her a whore trying to claw her way into high society.

She never told me about it, never defended herself.

She just silently endured it.

When I found out, I confronted them, telling them to back off.

But that only made things worse for her.

She'd get accidentally hit in the face with a basketball or accidentally shoved down a flight of stairs.

I realized the more I protected her, the more she suffered.

So I changed my strategy.

I started treating her horribly, even announcing to a crowd that she was just a dog I kept, one I wouldn't even let into my bed.

After that, the physical accidents stopped, though she was still a target for vicious gossip.

Then came the end.

The company went bankrupt.

My father fled with his mistress.

I killed a man and went to prison.

Before I was taken away, I did two things: I broke up with Chloe and signed the deed to the penthouse over to her as a severance package.

And now, here we were, our roles completely reversed.

I was no longer the profligate heir but a spa masseur, a profession one step away from being a gigolo.

And Chloe was the CEO of a gaming company, a woman I had to look up to, both literally and figuratively.

She saw me frozen in the doorway, a cold smile playing on her lips.

I hear that these days, you'll do anything for the right price.

Something like that, I said, forcing down the tidal wave of emotions inside me.

The taunts from my old friends had never truly hurt.

But to be seen like this, like an ant beneath her shoe that pain was real. It was sharp.

Chloe nodded, pulling open the vintage Louis Vuitton bag at her side and casually tossing several thick stacks of cash onto the sofa.

That bag

If I remembered correctly, it was a birthday present I had given her.

She'd never once used it, saying it was too precious.

Why did she still have it?

I hear your technique is quite good,

Chloe said suddenly.

Come and massage my feet.

I snapped back to the present and nodded.

I prepared a basin of water, testing the temperature before carrying it over to her.

Chloe lifted one leg, her stiletto-clad foot hovering in front of me.

I pulled over the small stool used for foot treatments, but before I could sit, she kicked me squarely in the shoulder.

I believe you once told people that when I washed your feet, I did it on my knees. I'm not mistaken, am I?

She looked down at me, her gaze imperious.

She wanted me to kneel before her.

I had said those words, but only to protect her.

The girls who pursued me came from families as wealthy as mine, some even wealthier.

I had no real power over them.

Belittling her was the only way I could think of to lessen her suffering.

My heart throbbed.

I wanted to explain, to tell her everything, but I held back. I was afraid she wouldn't believe me, or worse, that she wouldn't care.

So, I dropped to one knee, reaching out to remove her high heel.

Chloe kicked me again. One knee? she sneered. Am I not paying enough?

She grabbed the cash and started flinging the stacks at my face.

I stood there and took it. When she finally stopped, I looked her deep in the eyes.

If it makes you happy, I'll kneel.

I lowered myself to both knees. A satisfied smile finally graced her lips, and she extended her foot again. I slipped off her shoe, carefully cradling her small, delicate foot in my hands.

I used to steal glances at her feet, so small and pale, like they were carved from white jade.

But I'd always been a coward, too afraid to even look for too long.

Test the water.

I scooped some water with my hand and gently dabbed it onto her perfect foot. She flinched, her elegant brow furrowing. Is this how you provide a service?

I knew she was just trying to make things difficult. The temperature was perfect. But I didn't argue. I just reached for the kettle to adjust it.

Suddenly, she plunged both feet into the bamboo basin, splashing water all over my face and shirt.

She stared at me, a cruel smirk on her face. Justin, name your price. How much would it take for you to drink this water?

My heart seized again. I never imagined she could hate me this much.

But then again, it made perfect sense. The old Chloe had been sensitive and fiercely proud. And I had publicly degraded her. If our roles were reversed, I would hate me too.

God, I wanted to explain. I wanted to tell her it was all to protect her. But I couldn't. I was afraid of her scorn. I was even more afraid that she might come back to me.

If she dismissed my explanation, it would shatter what was left of my heart.

And if she came back to me did I even deserve her?

I looked at her, my voice steady. No charge. If it makes you happy.

I bent down, leaning over the foot basin like a dog lapping at a bowl.

From an angle where I couldn't see, her eyes reddened for a fleeting moment. Then she lifted her foot and kicked my shoulder, knocking me away.

She burst into laughter. Justin, have you completely lost your pride? If it makes you happy?' Or did you figure saying that would make me give you more money?

I stumbled back, landing hard on the floor. I couldn't meet her eyes.

She had no idea.

No one else could trample on my dignity because, frankly, I didn't care what they thought.

But she was different. All it took was one scornful laugh from her, and my pride was already in a million pieces.

I shook my head, saying nothing.

Chloe beckoned to me with one finger. Come here. On your knees.

I crawled back to her, kneeling so close.

I had been this close to her once before, when she'd fallen asleep at her desk while coding late at night. I had wanted to steal a kiss, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.

Back then, I had leaned down to cover her with a blanket.

Now, at the same distance, I had to look up at her, and she looked down at me as if I truly were a dog.

Chloe tilted my chin up. Justin, two years and you've become more interesting. But why aren't you smiling? You're a gigolo. Is this how you treat your clients?

I couldn't help but correct her. Not a gigolo. A masseur.

Chloe laughed. Is there a difference?

I didn't argue further. I just forced a smile.

She nodded, satisfied. Begin.

How many times had I dreamed of holding these feet in my hands?

But I never dared, afraid it would upset her. I figured no woman would want a man's touch to be transactional.

So I never crossed that line.

I sympathized with her plight, admired her resilience, and respected her ambition.

All of that coalesced into love.

Or maybe I would have loved her anyway, without any of it.

Why I loved her, what it was about her I didn't really know. I just did.

In prison, the only thing that kept me going for two years was the thought of seeing her again, just once.

The hell I endured in there would have been enough to kill me ten thousand times over otherwise.

Thanks to the old-timer in my cell, my skills were excellent. For the rest of the foot massage, Chloe didn't give me any more trouble.

When the session was over, I dried her feet and carried the basin away.

After tidying up, I managed another strained smile.

Ma'am, the foot treatment is complete. If there's nothing else, I'll be on my way.

I turned to leave without waiting for her reply.

Yes, I was running. I was even ready to quit my job.

Because this, being stripped of all my dignity in front of her, was the one thing I couldn't bear.

Stop.

Did I say you could leave?

Her voice came from behind me, sharp and cold.

I knew it.

She wasn't going to let me off that easily.

I hesitated for a moment, then turned back to face her and let out a long sigh.

Under her amused gaze, I dropped to my knees again, a self-deprecating smile on my face.

I admit it. I said a lot of things that hurt you, and I apologize. If you can't accept my apology, then please, punish me all at once. Get it over with, and then just let me go. Can you do that?

A complex expression flickered across her face.

She stood up and walked toward me, barefoot.

Her fingers found the gap between the buttons of my shirt and she gave a slight tug.

Get up.

I rose, following the gentle pressure, but I couldn't meet her eyes.

Justin, am I stupid? she asked.

I was taken aback. I shook my head. If she were stupid, how could she have built a multi-million-dollar empire? I had no idea why she was asking me that.

She didn't seem to expect an answer. Instead, she walked toward the plush king-sized bed. Just my feet isn't enough. Give me a full-body spa treatment.

She sat on the edge of the bed and then gracefully lay on her side, her body forming a breathtaking curve.

Justin, I asked the manager about you, she said, her tone laced with mockery.

He said your patron this morning, the four-hundred-pound one, was praising your Golden Fingers.'

So let me see for myself. Show me just how much pleasure a gigolo like you can give a woman.

Then, right in front of me, she began to remove her clothes, piece by piece.

Some clients did have unusual requests.

And my hands were, admittedly, very skilled.

It wasn't long before I'd earned the nickname Golden Fingers.' If it were just guys joking around, it might be something to brag about. But when that name became linked to my profession, it was nothing but pure humiliation.

And a patron?

Why would she use that word?

A patron was someone who frequented a brothel.

In modern terms, it was the top-spending fan who could sleep with a streamer anytime he wanted.

So that's what I was in her eyes now.

Utterly debased.

I offered myself to you once, and you refused, she said, her voice a low challenge.

Do you dare refuse me now?

She had, in fact, thrown herself at me once.

It was the night I had publicly declared that I wouldn't even give her the chance to climb into my bed.

I had been out drinking.

The girl who dropped me off had even pointed a finger in Chloe's face and sneered, You're just a dog. You don't even have the right to get into his bed.

Chloe had simply taken my drunken form from her, calmly shut the door, and said nothing.

Though I was drunk, a bit of liquid courage made me mumble, Don't listen to her. I just I think you're too good to be with me because of money.

Chloe didn't reply. She just helped me to the bed.

As she always did, she brought a basin of water and knelt to wash my feet. It wasn't because I demanded it, or because she was trying to suck up to me.

It was simply the most comfortable position for the task.

Then she got another basin of water, changed my clothes, and began to wipe down my body. I tried to refuse, but she silently continued.

Then, she said softly, You say I shouldn't be with you for money. But what if I like you, Justin?

Don't be ridiculous, I scoffed, my words a betrayal of my own heart. Who would fall for a notorious scumbag? Then I delivered the killing blow. Besides, I just slept with someone before I came home. I don't have the energy to play with you tonight.

After I said that, Chloe turned and fled the room.

Thinking back on my self-proclaimed nobility, I felt like a fool. I should have just done everything I wanted to do back then.

Chloe's voice cut through my thoughts. Justin, have you gone mute?

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

A derisive laugh escaped her. Justin, where's your pride? The pride that made you reject me even when I threw myself at you? Didn't you tell everyone I was just a dog you kept, that you wouldn't even give me the privilege of climbing into your bed?

I remained silent. I had said those things. And even if my intentions were good, I knew that for someone as proud as Chloe, those words must have been agony.

Serve me, she said suddenly, the way I used to serve you.

I nodded, went to the bathroom, and prepared a basin of warm water, wringing out a towel.

Come on, Golden Fingers, she taunted. Serve me with the same skills you used on your fat patron.

I took a deep breath, sat on the edge of the bed, and began to gently wipe her skin. But when my hand reached her arm, she snatched it away. Don't touch my hand, she said, her voice like ice.

It was only then that I saw it. On her left wrist, there was a flesh-colored medical tape, concealing something underneath.

Are you hurt? I asked.

Smack.

She lunged up and slapped me hard across the face. Get out! she screamed, pointing at the door.

Chloe, what's wrong? I asked, standing up. She was hiding something from me.

She stared at me, her eyes blazing. Nothing's wrong. I'm just done playing with you for today. We'll continue tomorrow. Now get the hell out!

I sighed, intending to clean up before I left, but another volley of curses sent me fleeing from the room.

After checking out with the manager, I got on my electric scooter and headed home.

Before I even opened the door to my apartment, I could hear the clacking of poker chips. I pushed the door open to see my mother and three men playing cards in the living room. The small room was thick with cigarette smoke, the initial wave almost knocked me over.

A bald man with a scar on his lip saw me, and then, right in front of me, he reached out and squeezed my mother's breast, giving me a provocative smirk.

You're home, son?

The one who greeted me wasn't my mother. It was the bald man.

My mother, a cigarette dangling from her lips, laughed a cheap, throaty laugh. Son, hurry up and say hello to your new dad.

This was my mother. For as long as I could remember, she had been like this. She never cooked, never cleaned, never took care of me. Her days were a blur of poker and binge drinking. The only reason my father tolerated her was because her money had been the seed capital for his business.

I remember her pointing a finger in his face, screaming, Don't you dare give me that look. If I hadn't spread my legs to earn the money for you to use, do you think you'd be a big boss now?

Once, when my father was drunk, he even told me he wasn't sure if I was his son. So when he went bankrupt and ran off with his mistress, I didn't even blame him. My mother wasn't just a terrible wife, she was a terrible mother. Every time she got drunk, she'd find an excuse to beat me.

My body is still a roadmap of scars from her hands.

The only reason I still support her now is to repay the debt of her giving birth to me. As for affection, that died a long time ago.

Hey, big boy, aren't you gonna call me Dad? the bald man cackled. The other two men joined in. They always did this, getting their kicks at my expense. Just like my old friends, they thought that stomping on the fallen prince would elevate their own status.

Usually, I just took it. It wasn't really tolerance, I just didn't care.

But today was different. Today, I had seen the girl I cared about most in the world, and all she had for me was hatred and thinly veiled contempt. I didn't blame her. I wasn't angry with her. But seeing her had left me raw, flammable, and ready to explode.

I looked at the bald man, my voice cold. Do you have any idea why I went to prison?

For a little fight? You think that scares me? he scoffed. When I was your age, I was tougher than anyone. You're still a kid.

I suddenly smiled. I walked toward him, casually picked up a fruit knife from the table, and shoved it into his hand.

What are you doing? he stammered, stunned.

I grabbed his hand, the one holding the knife, and slammed it into my own shoulder. The tip of the blade tore through flesh, and the searing pain only made my smile wider. Then, I grabbed his head and smashed it against the poker table.

The others tried to pull me off, but I had already snatched the glass ashtray and brought it down on his face.

I went to prison for killing someone in self-defense, I said with a cheerful grin. You're about to be my new dad. Didn't you know?

The bald man's curses died in his throat. The other two men scrambled backward in fear.

I leaned in close, my face inches from his. Your son works as a designer at a construction firm, right? And your grandson goes to an elementary school on Third Street?

You I please don't

Before he could finish, I shoved a poker chip into his mouth.

Remember this, I said, patting his cheek. Don't ever fuck with me. Because I really will kill you.

The other two men fled. The bald one wanted to, but he was too terrified to move.

I pointed to my bleeding shoulder. You tried to kill me, and I fought back. I think we should call the police.

Don't! He was petrified now, and he knew what was coming next. I'll give you money. Ten thousand, is that enough?

Add a zero.

The bald man didn't hesitate. He pulled out his phone and transferred the money. At my request, he added a note to the transaction: Medical Expenses.

Through it all, my mother just watched with a grin, not saying a word.

After the man had scrambled away, she held out her hand to me. I brought him here. Give me the money.

I pointed to my bleeding shoulder. I earned this money with this knife wound. You want it? Go get one of your own.

My mother rolled her eyes, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door. She was still in her pajamas, her hair unwashed, her face uncleaned. She was going out drinking. If things went as they usually did, she'd get blackout drunk and end up passed out in some alley, maybe to be picked up by some random man. It wouldn't be the first time.

I sat down, ripped off my shirt, and began to bandage my own wound. Then I leaned back, lit a cigarette, and took a long, hard drag, hovering between the urge to cry and the urge to laugh.

Maybe it was time. Time to leave this city.

Go somewhere Chloe could never find me.

Before seeing her again, I thought about her day and night. But I never wanted to see her. I knew she was a millionaire now. I knew if we met again, she would humiliate me, trample all over me.

But now that I've seen her, I can't stop thinking about her. The desire to leave is at war with the overwhelming urge to stay.

Just then, the door opened.

I didn't look back. It had to be my mother, forgetting something.

Don't piss me off today, I warned, or else I'll

Or else you'll what?

Chloe's voice.