My Billionaire Boyfriend Sent Me an Invoice for Our Love

Bronwyn's POV

My boyfriend of five years was actually Gideon Pryce, Vale City's wealthiest heir—and our entire relationship was just a gold-digger test.

Then he handed me the receipts. Every dollar he’d spent on me in five years. He wanted it back.

He didn’t know about the ultrasound in my purse. Eleven weeks. A rare complication. One surgery that afternoon was my baby’s only chance, and I’d scraped together every cent of the $120,000 it cost.

He drained my account and bought his childhood best friend a Birkin.

I lost the baby. He said I was being dramatic.

Fine. He wants to talk money? Let’s talk money.

He spent five years hunting for a gold digger. By the time I’m done, he’ll find one—staring back at him in the mirror.

——

The day Gideon Pryce told me who he really was, he also asked for five years of his money back.

“Come on, Wyn. You don’t want people thinking you were with me for the money, do you?”

He slid a stack of receipts across the coffee table. The four-dollar hot dog from our first date. A bottle of water from the corner bodega. The Tylenol he’d bought when I had the flu.

Total: $26,056.

His grandfather, Arthur Pryce, had lost half the family fortune in a divorce, and every Pryce man since had been raised on one rule: Women are only after your money. So Gideon had tested me.

For five years.

In the purse on my lap was the report from that morning’s prenatal visit.

I was eleven weeks pregnant when the ultrasound revealed a rare nightmare. One baby was safe in my uterus, but the other was trapped in my fallopian tube—a ticking time bomb that could rupture and bleed me out at any moment. I needed immediate surgery, but with them sitting so close together, a single slip of the scalpel could cost me my healthy baby.

The hospital wanted $120,000 up front. Surgery was that afternoon.

I’d raised the money in ten days. I’d drained my savings, borrowed from everyone I knew, maxed out two credit cards, and taken out a loan against my late grandfather’s house in Mossbury.

I’d only come home for my hospital bag. I’d meant to tell him after the surgery, once we were safe. But looking at the man I’d loved for five years, I couldn’t get the words out.

“I need that money for surgery,” I said. “I’ll pay you back next month.”

He frowned. “Romilly was right. You always have an excuse. I should’ve listened to her and stayed away from a gold digger like you.”

I didn’t argue.

That afternoon, the woman at the hospital billing desk gave me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Ms. Thalassa. It’s showing insufficient funds.”

The $120,000 was gone.

I called him with shaking hands. He sounded almost cheerful.

“Oh, yeah, that was me. Your password’s still my birthday. Romilly wanted a croc Birkin—a hundred and twenty grand, on the nose. Twenty-six of that covers what you owe me. Call the rest damages. For five years of being played.”

The money meant to save my baby was now hanging off his childhood best friend’s arm.

He hung up.

A pain like a knife tore through my lower right side. Someone shouted for a doctor. Gurney wheels rattled across the floor.

My tube had ruptured.

I woke up in the surgical ICU on my second unit of blood. Dr. Okafor was holding my hand.

“Bronwyn, you had a massive internal bleed. We almost lost you.” She paused. “The baby in your uterus couldn’t survive the blood loss. I’m so sorry. You won’t need the other surgery now.”

There was nothing left for that surgery to save.

Three days later, I came home. Gideon was on the couch, arms folded, ready to cross-examine me.

“Three days. I figured you were sulking about the money. Guess you didn’t have it in you. Came crawling back, huh?”

I ignored him. Every step tugged at the stitches across my belly, and I was still bleeding.

“Where are you going? It’s almost dinnertime. Kitchen’s that way.” He looked me over. “And what’s with the face? Who’s that for? You vanish for three days and come back looking like somebody died.”

I stopped.

I could have told him everything—that the baby was his, that the money was the price of a life. But I looked at his face and couldn’t find a reason to bother.

For five years, he’d looked down on me. He sneered at my food-truck tacos. He threw my thrift-store sweaters in the trash. He wore a Patek Philippe right in front of me and called it a forty-dollar street knockoff, sure I’d never know the difference.

I didn’t. That’s how he got away with it for five years.

My silence only annoyed him more. “First a fake surgery to squeeze money out of me. Then you storm off. Now the silent treatment. I never knew you’d stoop this low, Bronwyn.”

I gave a short laugh. “If I were half as calculating as you think, would I have let you walk off with a hundred and twenty grand?”

Something like guilt crossed his face. Then the rich boy was back.

“Romilly called it. She said you’d make a scene over a little money. What’s next—a sob story so you can hit me up for more?”

He tossed a narrow silk scarf at my feet.

“Here. The reseller threw it in with the Birkin. You can have it. Consider it your refund.”

A Twilly—honey-orange silk, delicate as a painting.

Paid for with my baby’s life.

I kicked it away.

The front door opened, and Romilly Halbert walked in carrying a honey-orange crocodile Birkin, its scales gleaming under the lights. The scarf was just an add-on.

So was I.

“Bronwyn? What are you doing back?”

“Since when do I need your permission to come home?”

Her face fell, right on cue. “I was only asking. I always knew you didn’t come from much, but I didn’t know you had such a...” She glanced at Gideon and let it hang. “Gid, you’ve put up with so much.”

She wasn’t even being subtle. And Gideon nodded like she’d said something wise. He pulled out his phone and opened the calculator.

“That was just the material stuff. I haven’t counted what I gave up to test you. No penthouse. No clubs. My cars sat in the garage for five years. Plus all the emotional labor—every single day. That’s worth something.”

He turned the screen toward me.

"One hundred forty-two thousand, eight hundred and fifty. Since the lease is in your name, I’ll be generous. Let’s call it an even one forty."