When the truth broke us

People think being rich means you can have anything. Money, cars, power, love. But what they don’t tell you is that it buys everything except truth. My name is Ethan Cole. Heir to Cole International the empire of overpriced watches and corporate greed that my father built and my mother smiled through. To the world, I’m a billionaire with everything a man could want. But to me? I’m a name on a Forbes list that doesn’t mean a damn thing. I was tired. Tired of fake smiles, of women who saw a last name before they saw me. So, one night, after a fight with my father about taking over the company, I packed a duffel bag and walked out of my penthouse. I left behind the suits, the cars, the private driver everything. For once, I wanted to meet someone who didn’t know who I was. Someone real. I ended up in a small neighborhood on the east side, where the streets smelled like engine oil and coffee, and nobody cared who you were as long as you worked hard. That’s where I met her, Amelia Hart. She was sitting on the curb outside a small diner, wearing scrubs and holding a paper cup of coffee that looked like it had been refilled too many times. Her hair was pulled back messily, and her eyes God, those eyes were tired but kind. Rough day? I asked, leaning on my motorcycle that had just broken down for the third time that week. She glanced up at me, smiling faintly. You could say that. Twelve-hour shift, no sleep, and a patient who tried to bite me. I laughed, and for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t forced. That bad, huh? Worse, she said, but there was warmth in her tone. You? My bike hates me, I admitted. And I’m too broke to fix it. That was the first lie. Small, harmless, the kind that rolls off your tongue so easily you almost believe it yourself. She tilted her head, studying me for a second. You don’t look broke. Maybe I just fake it well. She smiled again, this time, real. There’s a repair shop a few blocks down. My brother works there. He’ll take a look for free. Free sounds good, I said. What’s his name? Evan. Tell him his sister sent you. That was how it started two strangers trading small kindnesses under flickering streetlights. I told her my name was Ethan Cole, but I didn’t tell her what that meant. I said I worked part-time fixing engines, that I shared an apartment with two other guys, that I was trying to figure out my life. She believed me. Why wouldn’t she? I wore old jeans, ate diner food, and caught the bus like everyone else. And every night, when she’d text me about her day, I’d feel something dangerous growing inside me. Hope. She made me feel human again. Not the billionaire everyone envied. Not the heir people whispered about. Just Ethan. Two weeks later, she invited me to her place a small, cozy apartment that smelled like vanilla and disinfectant. We sat on the couch, sharing takeout, talking about dreams. She told me she wanted to open a children’s clinic one day. I told her I just wanted to be free from my father’s name. You’re different, she said softly, resting her head against my shoulder. I wanted to tell her the truth then. I swear I did. But fear kept my mouth shut. Because I knew that the moment she found out who I really was how much I had, what I’d hidden everything would change. And I couldn’t lose her. Not yet. So I kissed her instead, and she kissed me back, and for that moment, the lie felt worth it. If I’d known then that the truth would destroy us both, I might’ve told her everything that night. But love makes you blind. And lies make you brave, at least until they break you.