“You’re rich?”
“Very.”
Jack’s mouth opened, “So… you were testing ME while I was testing YOU?”
I nodded. “Looks like it.”
“Wait,” he said, a realization dawning on his face. “All those times you acted impressed by my hot plate cooking…”
“Oh, that wasn’t acting.
I was genuinely amazed anyone could make edible food on that thing.”
Jack burst out laughing.
“We are ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head. “I was out here trying to see if you were a gold digger, and you,” he gestured to the mansion behind me. “You had a palace this whole time?”
“Basically.” I smirked.
“Guess we both passed the test.”
Jack leaned back in his seat, still chuckling. “So, does this mean your answer is yes?”
I tapped my chin, pretending to think. “Hmm.
I guess I’ll marry you!”
He pulled me into a kiss. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it.”
Six months later, we got married in a small but stunning ceremony. The wedding was perfect, except for one minor detail: our families would not shut up about how we “tricked” each other.
“I still can’t believe you ate instant ramen for a year,” my mother whispered during the reception.
“You don’t even like ramen!”
“The things we do for love, Mom,” I whispered back, watching Jack charm my grandmother on the dance floor.
Jack’s dad nearly choked on his champagne from laughing so hard. “You two hid your wealth from each other for an entire year? That’s some next-level commitment.”
“Remember when you visited Jack’s fake apartment?” his sister chimed in.
“He spent three hours strategically placing water stains on the ceiling!”
“You did what?” I turned to Jack, who suddenly became very interested in his cake.
My mother sighed dramatically. “I raised you better than this, Giselle. What kind of normal person pretends to be broke?”
Jack and I just exchanged a look.
“We’re insane,” he whispered.
“But perfectly matched!” I grinned.
And at the end of the day, that was all that mattered.
Some months after our wedding, Jack and I were lounging on his (real) luxury couch, scrolling through apartments to buy together.
“You know what I miss?” he said suddenly, looking nostalgic.
“If you say that d-eath trap couch —”
“Martha would be heartbroken to hear that.”
“Martha tried to impale me with a spring!”
He kissed my forehead, chuckling.
“I love you!”
“I love you too,” I smiled. “Even if you are a terrible actor who thought a hot plate made your poverty story more believable.”
“Hey, that hot plate performance was Oscar-worthy!” he laughed.
And just like that, we were back to being us.
Two ridiculous people who found each other in the most unexpected way, proving that sometimes the best love stories aren’t about wealth or status… they’re about two people who can laugh at themselves, keep each other’s secrets, and fall in love over instant ramen, broken heaters, and a dusty old couch adorned with patchwork.
