Lately, Blake has been sneaking out when he thinks I'm not looking.

Before leaving, he always prepares a feast, sweet-talking me with "baby this" and "baby that."

After I "fall asleep" at night, he quietly gets dressed and slips out.

What Mr. Wall Street doesn't know is that I'm wide awake.

For weeks, I've been waiting for him to show his true colors.

Tonight, after wearing me out in bed, he got dressed and disappeared.

This is the tenth time this month—even Mother Teresa would be suspicious.

After Blake left, I threw on some clothes and tailed him.

I crouched in the stairwell, ear pressed against the door.

Blake's voice drifted through:

"Those board members are getting anxious. Time to make my move."

Another man answered deferentially:

"Sir, what about Miss Swift? What's the plan for her?"

My pulse quickened at the question.

After Blake had been freeloading at my place for so long—eating my food, spending my money, sleeping in my bed—he wouldn't just ghost me, would he?

Blake said coldly: "She's all about the cash. Cut her a check and get rid of her."

The man seemed taken aback and quickly added:

"Miss Swift has taken care of you for months. Isn't just writing her a check a bit harsh?"

Blake snapped: "What then? Should I bring her to the family estate? Her? A nobody from a no-name college with a dead-end job at some startup? Is she worthy of the Hayes name?"

The man then asked: "So what amount should we offer?"

Blake only threw out three words: "Whatever she wants."

Hearing this, I tiptoed back to the bedroom, silently fist-pumping the air like I'd won the lottery.

"Whatever she wants."

Those were the sweetest words I'd heard in both my lifetimes.

My Broke Boyfriend Turned Out to Be a Wall Street Billionair — Chapter 8

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