He Hid His Billions Till Death

On Thanksgiving, my longdistance boyfriend sent me his usual checkin photo. He said he was stuck working the holiday shift, eating instant ramen in the security guard booth.

I pinched my fingers on the screen, zooming in. Right at the edge of his desk, partially cut off by the frame, sat a halfeaten pork sausage roll. Virgil is a devout Muslim.

We had been together for five years. He was the kind of man who would grimace if my fork so much as brushed a plate that had touched lard.

There was absolutely no way he would eat pork. We were both drowning in poverty.

He was supposedly working as a night watchman back home; I was grinding through five different parttime jobs just to keep my head above water.

Because of that, we had a silent agreement not to mention visiting each other for the holiday. Neither of us could afford the luxury.

But that night, I spent my last savings on a ticket for the overnight Greyhound bus. Eleven hours. Eleven hours of jolting in a cramped, plastic seat, just to see him.

When I finally reached the highrise office building in Boston, I pulled up his photo and showed it to the security guard at the front desk. "Does Virgil work here?

As a guard?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. The older guard blinked at me, then let out a soft, amused laugh. "You mean Mr. Holloway? Our CEO? He’s in the main lobby.

It’s his secretary Lydia’s birthday today. He’s cutting the cake with her right now." I followed his gaze toward the far end of the ground floor.

An entire wall of the lobby was made of seamless, floortoceiling glass, brilliantly illuminated. Virgil stood there, dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit.

He was leaning down to gently place a paper birthday crown on a young woman's head, his fingers tenderly brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. He looked incredibly gentle.

When the woman turned her face, my breath caught. She looked seventy percent like a younger version of me. The world tilted.

Tears blurred my vision as I stepped back into the shadows and dialed my best friend. "Bella," I sobbed, the words choking me. "He’s cheating on me." The line went dead quiet for a few seconds.

Then, Bella spoke, her voice heavy with a strange, defensive guilt. "So, you finally found out?" "..." "June, look, this is just Virgil’s loyalty test.

He wanted to see if you were the kind of girl who was only after his money. You’ve endured so much already. Just put up with it a little longer, okay?

It'll all be worth it." I didn't answer.

I hung up the phone in silence, then dialed a different number—one I had been avoiding for weeks. "Doctor," I said, staring at my reflection in the dark glass. "If I choose not to go through with the treatment... how long do I have left?" … The oncologist was quiet for a long moment. "Based on your current blood work, June... a conservative estimate is three months." I ended the call, and the screen went black.

The security guard at the desk was still watching me. His eyes lingered on my faded, wornout canvas sneakers, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. "Miss? Do you know Mr.

Holloway?" I forced my frozen lips into a faint, hollow stretch of a smile. I opened my mouth, but no words came.

I realized, with a sickening jolt, that I didn't know how to answer him.

The Virgil I knew had bought me a nineteendollar sterling silver necklace when he earned his very first paycheck from a tutoring gig.

He had taken a grueling sixhour train ride just to put it around my neck with clumsy, trembling hands. "June, I promise you, one day I'll buy you the real thing." The man standing in that glittering lobby, commanding the room in a luxury suit, was a stranger.

I looked down. "We... went to college together," I murmured. The guard didn't press further.

I walked out and stood alone by the concrete planters, the night wind whipping through my thin jacket.

I opened my phone’s browser and typed his name into the search bar: Virgil Holloway.

He had told me he was working as a night watchman in our hometown, making barely enough to send money back to his sick parents. I had believed him.

He said he couldn't save enough for a bus ticket to see me. I had believed that, too.

I had never doubted a single word that came out of his mouth. "Holloway Enterprises’ MidYear Revenue Surpasses One Billion; Young Heir Steps into the Spotlight." The accompanying photo showed him standing dead center at a press conference, wearing a perfectly tailored suit that accentuated his broad shoulders.

He looked worlds apart from the boy who used to wear tendollar thriftstore tshirts. I looked back through the glass wall.

The birthday cake was a magnificent, fivetier creation adorned with delicate, sugarspun roses—the kind of luxury I had only ever seen on television.

Virgil stood close to his secretary, his hand lightly resting on the small of her back. Lydia turned her head to smile at him.

Those two deep dimples on her cheeks... she looked exactly like me when I was nineteen. But I wasn't nineteen anymore.

Five years of shifts at a 4 AM diner, sorting packages under the scorching summer sun, and standing behind a convenience store register until dawn had long since chased the light from my eyes.

But this girl... she looked like a flower that had been meticulously tended to in a greenhouse.

The security guard, perhaps eager to share some office gossip, wandered near the door and chuckled. "Mr. Holloway really spoils Miss Lydia.

She mentioned she missed the traditional pork sausage rolls from her favorite bakery back home for the holiday, so he literally had someone drive three counties over just to fetch them." So, the pork sausage roll on the desk... it had been for her.

I took a few steps closer, wanting to see them clearly. Virgil picked up the silver cake knife. Lydia placed her hand over his, and together, they cut the first slice.

For a fleeting second, I wondered if I had ever known the real Virgil at all.

The side door of the lobby pushed open, and two female employees stepped out into the cool night air to share a vape.

They didn't notice me standing behind the shadow of a maple tree. "Lydia is seriously the luckiest girl alive," one whispered. "Right?

She was just a basic receptionist at the regional branch. Mr.

Holloway went down for an inspection, saw her once, and had her transferred to headquarters the next day." "And this party is insane.

Those flowers had to be flown in overnight, right?" "Obviously. Did you see the way he looked at her when they cut the cake?

It was so sweet it made me want to scream." They giggled and walked back inside.

I leaned my back against the rough bark of the tree, my fingers trembling as I typed a message. "Virgil, what are you doing right now?" Through the glass, I saw him reach into his trousers and pull out his phone.

He glanced at the screen. When Lydia leaned in to see, he subtly tilted the screen away from her view. A few seconds later, my phone vibrated. "Just on my shift at the gatehouse.

It’s going to be a long night. Go to sleep early, honey.

Don't stay up late." A cold wave of nausea washed over me as I thought of my mother, currently hooked up to life support in an ICU back home.

If Virgil had just told me the truth, would I have had to work five jobs?

Would I have taken that toxic job at the adhesive factory—the one that filled my lungs with benzene and gave me leukemia?

I took a deep breath, my chest aching, and sent another text. "Virgil, let’s break up." Inside the lobby, the easy smile on Virgil’s face vanished. "June, what’s wrong?

Are you just exhausted? Hang in there. As soon as this busy stretch is over, I’ll come see you." I let out a breathless, tragic laugh, the tears finally spilling over.

I had heard that exact phrase so many times.

During our senior year of college, it was "once this internship is over." After graduation, it was "once my job stabilizes." And lately, it was "once I save up enough." I had waited every single time.

And today, my reward was watching him throw a fairytale birthday party for another woman. My phone buzzed repeatedly. Virgil was calling.

I stared at the cheap silver band on my finger—the one we had hammered out together—and swiped to answer. "June!" His voice was frantic, laced with a familiar panic. "Why are you saying this?

What happened?" He sounded exactly the same as he did years ago.

During our junior year, when I had fainted from exhaustion, he had rushed to the clinic and held my hand with that exact same desperate tone. "June, please look at me.

What’s wrong?" Back then, he had pestered the school nurse until she practically threw him out, repeatedly promising him that it was just low blood sugar.

He had sat by my cot for the entire afternoon, refusing to leave. But hearing that same frantic tone now only made me feel a profound, absurd sense of mockery.

I laughed, but it quickly turned into a sob.

The tears tasted bitter and salty as they slipped into my mouth. "Virgil, have you ever done anything to betray me?" The line went dead silent for a moment.

Then, his voice came through, steady and quiet. "No." "What are you doing right now?" I pressed. "I’m working my shift at the gatehouse." A sudden wave of dry heaves hit me.

My stomach, empty for over eleven hours, burned with acid. I hung up and turned to walk toward the lobby doors, but before I could take a step, someone grabbed my arm. It was Bella.

She was my closest friend from college, the one who had witnessed every milestone of my relationship with Virgil. Now, a glossy Holloway Enterprises ID badge hung around her neck.

Bella had never been an outstanding student, and her resume had been rejected by dozens of midlevel firms.

Then, out of nowhere, she had joyfully announced she’d landed a highpaying corporate job at Holloway.

I had been so happy for her that I’d scraped together enough money to treat her to dinner. It had all been because of Virgil. She had known about his true identity all along.

She had known about his billions while watching me work myself to the bone, watching me cry over photos of his instant ramen. She had probably even helped him craft his lies.

Bella held onto my arm tightly. "June, please calm down. Just let me explain, okay?" "Let go of me." "Virgil didn't have a choice!

You don't know the kind of vultures that circle guys in his position. He just wanted to find a girl who truly loved him for who he was, someone who wasn't after his money.

Don't you see?" I looked at her—at this girl who used to share a tiny dorm bed with me, whispering our secrets into the night.

Her face looked completely foreign. "So... this whole fiveyear struggle was just an obstacle course? A test?" Bella squeezed my hand. "You’re right at the finish line, June.

Just hold on a little longer. Virgil has been thinking about you this whole time. You're the one he loves.

That secretary doesn't mean anything to him." I yanked my hand back, my voice cracking. "He loves me?

By feeding me lies about instant ramen while he cuts a fivetier cake with her?" Bella opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

I turned away from her and marched toward the glass doors. As I pushed them open, the warmth of the lobby and the sound of laughter crashed over me.

The room was filled with people in sleek evening wear and elegant dresses. I was wearing a pair of old, faded jeans that had begun to pill at the knees.

I looked like a stain on their perfect picture. Virgil was the first to see me. His hand, holding a flute of champagne, froze midair. Lydia followed his gaze, her smile faltering.

She instinctively took a small step closer to Virgil, her shoulder brushing his. Virgil muttered something to her, set his glass down, and walked quickly toward me.

He reached out and gently took my hands, his brow furrowed in that familiar, protective way. "Why are your hands so cold?" He immediately began slipping his charcoal suit jacket off his shoulders to drape it over me.

He had done this a thousand times before—by the lake on campus, under the freezing draft of the library vents, on the dark walks home after a late movie.

He spoke to me in that soft, soothing voice he used when I was upset. "How did you get here?

Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" I stared into his familiar eyes, then grabbed the lapels of his jacket and threw it to the floor. "Keep your expensive clothes, Mr.

Holloway. A girl like me doesn't deserve them." His face paled. "June, don't talk like that. I—" "Does this make you feel good, Virgil?

Are you amused?" His throat bobbed as he tried to grab my hand again. "June, you’re misunderstanding this. Lydia is just a kid fresh out of college.

She... she reminded me so much of how you were when we first met. I saw her and I just wanted to help her out.

That’s all." "I can explain everything else later—" Before he could finish, the phone in my pocket began to vibrate violently.

I pulled it out and answered. "Miss Song," the doctor's voice was urgent. "Your mother has just suffered acute multiorgan failure. Her condition is critical.

We need to know if you authorize the use of the imported experimental drugs immediately." The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the marble floor.

I knelt down to pick it up, and a shard of the shattered screen sliced deep into my thumb. I didn't feel a thing. The experimental drugs were highly effective.

But they were incredibly expensive. I stood back up, looking directly at Virgil. "Virgil, you're a billionaire, right? Can you give me some money?

Please." His brow furrowed deeper, his tone turning cautious, almost disappointed. "June, today is the very last day of the trial.

Just wait until tomorrow, and I’ll buy you whatever—" "I don't want tomorrow!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat, raw and hysterical. "I need it today! Right now!

Do you hear me?!" A look of deep weariness and doubt crept into his eyes. "June, please. I need this final proof to show my parents that you're the right woman to marry me.

Don't ruin this now." I stared at him, hot tears pouring down my face. "Virgil... if I agree to break up with you, will you give me the money?" He froze, and then, to my horror, a faint, confident smile touched his lips. "Stop talking nonsense.

I know you'd never leave me." He was always so calm. He always had his reasons, always assumed he held all the cards.

Unable to contain the wild, agonizing storm inside me, I swung my hand and slapped him across the face. Then, I turned and ran.

The tears blinded me, turning the corridor into a smear of bright lights. I stumbled, nearly falling over my own feet. "Hey!

Stop right there!" A sharp voice called out from behind me. I stopped and looked back. Lydia was standing at the end of the hallway.

A delicate gold bracelet sparkled on her wrist under the recessed lights.

She walked toward me, her eyes scanning my cheap clothes with cold disdain. "You look like you’re practically begging for cash," she said, her voice dripping with pity. "I've seen plenty of girls like you trying to extort Mr.

Holloway." She tilted her wrist, letting the gold catch the light. "See this? Mr. Holloway got it for me last month. It’s the newest Cartier piece.

Over five thousand dollars." She brushed her hair back, revealing a pair of lustrous pearl earrings. "And these?

Fifty thousand." Lydia’s expression softened into an insincere, mocking show of sympathy.

She leaned in close to my face. "Do you want them?" she whispered. "If you do, I can give them to you.

The money I spend on a single pair of shoes could fund your little life for years." My body went rigid. In that moment, pride was a luxury I could not afford.

My mother was dying. "Yes," I choked out. Lydia smiled, tilting her chin up as she looked down at me. "Then kneel.

Kneel and beg me for it." She pointed to the polished marble floor. "Right here.

Do it, and the money is yours." My hands clenched into tight fists, my fingernails biting so deep into my palms that they drew blood. But then I saw my mother.

My mother hooked to the ventilator, her fragile body pierced by a dozen tubes, her voice echoing in my mind, telling me not to work so hard. The images shattered my spine.

I bent my knees. They hit the cold, hard tile with a dull thud that sent a sharp pain straight to my chest.

Lydia looked down at me, letting out a delighted, soft laugh. "Good girl." She slowly drew her phone from her designer clutch. "Hold on, let me transfer it.

Don't worry, my phone is just a little laggy today." She swiped her screen, deliberately dragging out every second. "Oh, wait, why is my passcode failing?

Ah, I put it in wrong again. Just a second, almost got it." My knees were growing numb against the marble, but I didn't dare move.

I was terrified she would change her mind. "Okay, there. Is ten thousand enough?" She looked at me with amusement. "Oh, wait, my personal account has a daily limit.

I'll just use the shared Apple Pay.

Virgil set it up for me on his black card—the limit is practically endless." She tapped the screen a few more times, then turned the phone to show me the confirmation screen.

She had used Virgil's money to buy my dignity. I slowly stood up. Just as I did, my shattered phone buzzed in my hand.

A single text message appeared on the cracked screen: "Miss Song, we regret to inform you that despite our best efforts, your mother, Ruth Song, passed away tonight at 11:24 PM." I stared at the words until they lost all meaning.

My eyes felt dry, as if the well of my tears had completely burned out. Heavy, urgent footsteps echoed from the other end of the hall.

Virgil appeared, his expression dark with fury as he stopped in front of me. "June!

Have you lost your mind?" he barked. "Are you really so desperate for money that you’d corner a young girl who just graduated and threaten her?" Lydia shrank back beside him, tears instantly welling in her eyes. "Mr.

Holloway... she just blocked my way and demanded ten thousand dollars. She said she’d hurt me if I didn't give it to her." Virgil’s eyes flared with disgust.

He grabbed my wrist, his grip painfully tight. "June, I can't believe I ever loved you. You’re nothing but a superficial, greedy liar!" I slowly raised my head to look at him.

My lips parted, but my throat was entirely dry. No sound came. The lights overhead began to spin, faster and faster, dissolving into streaks of white.

I closed my eyes as my body went limp, falling like a leaf into the dark. The last thing I heard was Virgil’s voice, suddenly sharp with terror. "June!

June, wake up!" Then, the darkness swallowed me whole. I woke up to the faint, clinical smell of antiseptic. The curtains were drawn, letting in only a sliver of pale morning light.

Beside my bed was a vinyl guest chair. Over the armrest hung a gray cashmere scarf. Last winter, Virgil had sent me a selfie wearing that exact scarf.

When I told him it looked incredibly soft, he had laughed and said he bought it at a street market for five dollars.

I had teased him, telling him he made a fivedollar scarf look like five hundred. The door creaked open.

Virgil’s best friend, Jackie, stepped into the room. "You're finally awake," he said, pulling the chair closer to the bed. "How are you feeling?

Do you want some water?" I nodded slowly. He hurried to pour a cup and handed it to me. "Your fever was dangerously high last night.

You were completely out of it," Jackie said quietly. "Virgil stayed by your side the entire night.

He only stepped out a few minutes ago after your fever finally broke." I stared at the gray scarf on the chair, remaining silent.

Thinking I didn't believe him, Jackie added quickly, "I’m serious, June. I’ve known Virgil since college, and I’ve never seen him panic like that.

When you collapsed, he carried you out of the building and ran through three red lights to get you here.

He almost got into a fistfight with the ER doctor because he wanted them to treat you first." My expression didn't change.

I listened to his words as if they were about someone else entirely. Jackie’s phone began to vibrate.

He glanced at the screen, gave me an apologetic look, and stepped out into the hallway to answer it. He pulled the door shut behind him, but it didn't click fully into place.

Through the gap, his voice carried clearly into the room. "Yeah, her fever is down. She just woke up. She looks physically okay, but she isn't talking." There was a brief pause.

Then, Jackie’s voice dropped, filled with caution. "When are you coming back?

Have you... have you calmed your secretary down yet?" My fingers curled into the thin hospital blanket, gripping the fabric until my knuckles turned white.

Even now, I was still secondary to his other priorities. Jackie’s voice faded as he walked further down the corridor.

I threw off the blanket and pulled the IV needle from the back of my hand. A small bead of dark blood welled up, but I ignored it.

My phone was gone, and I only had a few crumpled bills left in my coat pocket. But I couldn't bear the thought of being in this room when Virgil returned.

I slipped out of the side exit. I didn't have enough money for a cab, so I began the long walk to the train station. As I passed a small florist on the corner, I stopped.

Water droplets clung to the bright yellow petals of some sunflowers. It made me think of Virgil.

Whenever we had a stupid argument, he would always show up at my door with a single sunflower to make peace. I wondered if he was buying flowers to apologize to Lydia right now.

I shook the thought from my head and kept walking. By the time I reached the station, the sun was high overhead. My heels were rubbed raw, bleeding into my cheap sneakers.

I used my remaining cash to buy a ticket, and boarded the train back to Lansing.

On the other side of the city, Virgil was holding a container of warm pumpkin porridge—my favorite—as he rode the elevator up to the fifth floor of the hospital.

The elevator doors slid open, and a phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, realizing it wasn't his own.

It was my cracked phone, which he had picked up from the lobby floor after I collapsed.

He hesitated for a second, then answered. "Miss Song," the oncologist’s voice came through the line. "Regarding the treatment plan we discussed last week... have you made a decision?

If we don't start chemotherapy immediately, the leukemia will—" Virgil froze in the middle of the corridor, his entire body going rigid. "What?" he breathed. "If the leukemia is left untreated, you only have three months left to live."