My Boyfriend Put Me on Sale

That night, while scrolling through a secondhand marketplace, I came across a bizarre listing.

[Virtual Girlfriend Companion Service — 99.9 dollars/month, premium relationship experience.

[Emotionally stable, available on demand, online 24/7, satisfaction guaranteed.

[Rave reviews, three customers have already renewed. DM for details.]

More than a dozen user reviews were stacked below.

[The experience is incredible—more attentive than my ex. Totally worth the money!]

[OP, where did you find such a gem? Share the source, please.]

[Is this girlfriend AI? She's way too obedient.]

[How much to buy her out?]

The seller replied: [Real-person service, exclusive source. Tenfold compensation if proven fake. Buyout inquiries via DM.]

I frowned, a mix of disbelief and disgust tightening my chest, and was just about to scroll past.

Then, by chance, I caught a glimpse of a partially blurred chat background image in the details section.

It was something I had drawn myself—the matching profile pictures my long-distance boyfriend and I used.

My heart dropped.

With trembling hands, I tapped open the rest of the images. One chat screenshot after another exploded across my vision.

[Good night, baby. Dream of me.]

[I ordered you a matcha latte. Don't forget to drink it.]

[This song is so good. Sharing it with you.]

Those were the messages I had sent Billy Evans last night, at noon today, and just moments ago.

And five minutes earlier, I had transferred 500 dollars to his secondary account to buy him the latest gaming keyboard.

The note read: [Only the best gear for my man.]

A new message popped up from Billy.

[Kat, I just woke up. I miss you so much.]

Just woke up? I stared at the message, my stomach churning.

But I didn't call to confront him—not yet. I needed proof.

I sent a message to him: [I'm exhausted from work today. My boss even yelled at me. I feel terrible.]

Almost instantly, he replied with a string of messages.

[What happened, baby? That idiot boss of yours again? Don't be mad, don't be mad. If you get sick from stress, it'll break my heart.

[Come on, tell me. I'll curse him out for you.]

At the same time, his secondary account showed that my 500-dollar transfer had been accepted. He replied with a simple: [OK.]

Then another message followed: [By the way, my buddy's a bit short on cash lately. Transfer me another 300, will you? I'll lend it to him for emergencies. He'll pay you back next month.]

I took a slow breath, my fingertips cold as I typed on the screen.

[Okay.]

I labeled the transfer "loan" and sent the money over.

He accepted it instantly and said nothing more.

On his main account, seeing that I hadn't replied, Billy sent another flurry of messages.

[Baby, why aren't you replying? Are you crying?

[Don't be sad. I'll order your favorite matcha latte, okay? Less sugar, regular ice, right?]

My heart sank.

His main account and his secondary account… were clearly two different people.

One was gentle to a fault. The other only knew how to take.

I decided to push further.

Switching to his secondary account, I sent a soft, aggrieved voice message.

"I'm really upset today. It feels like we're so far apart… You can't even be here to hold me. What are you doing right now? Can you send me a photo—just one? I want to feel like you're a little closer."

A few minutes later, Billy sent a picture, his tone edged with impatience.

It was a half-finished glass of beer. The background was a dim, neon-lit KTV club, chaotic and gaudy.

Caption: [Out with clients. No choice—it's all for our future.]

I fixed my gaze on a reflection on the glass.

I zoomed in. Then zoomed in again.

In the blurred reflection, I could just make out fragments of neon lettering.

Holding my breath, I studied it carefully until I recognized a word: Starlight.

Starlight Club. That place was in the busiest commercial district of our city—less than three kilometers from my home.

For final confirmation, I immediately searched online for "Starlight Club," and clicked into the "User Reviews" section, sorting by most recent.

My fingers flew as I scrolled down.

Finally, I found a photo posted five minutes ago.

In the picture, a group of people was raising their glasses in celebration. Billy sat in the center, grinning like he owned the world.

Leaning against him on the sofa was a beautiful girl I didn't recognize.

The caption read: [Thanks for the treat, bro! Starlight Club rocks! Plenty of beauties tonight!]

Every lie shattered in that instant. We were never in a long-distance relationship. It was a same-city scam.

I closed every app, my fingers trembling with rage.

After a long moment, I sent a message to his secondary account: [Let's meet.]