I met Jack a year ago in the least romantic way possible: by spilling an entire iced latte all over his neatly stacked paperwork at a coffee shop. I was mortified and already scrambling for napkins when he just chuckled and said, "Guess this is fate telling me to take a break!"

"Oh god, I'm so sorry!" I frantically dabbed at the papers. "I swear I'm not usually this clumsy. Well, actually, that's a lie. I totally am."

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Then I better move these other papers before you decide to give them a coffee bath too."

We laughed and I liked him instantly.

We ended up sitting together and talking for hours. He was funny, charming, and refreshingly down-to-earth. He told me he worked in logistics for a small company, and I told him about my marketing job. No flashy moves or no pretense. We just had an easy conversation that made me feel like I'd known him forever.

"You know," he said, stirring his second coffee, "I usually hate when people spill drinks on me, but I might make an exception this time."

I raised an eyebrow. "Just this time?"

"Well, depends on how many more times you plan on assaulting me with beverages."

And that's how it all started.

From the beginning, Jack always insisted we hang out at his place. I figured it was because my roommate was a total neat freak who hated guests, so I didn't question it. But his apartment? Well… let's just say it had character.

The place was a tiny, dimly lit studio in an ancient building on the bad side of town. The heater had a personality of its own — it worked only when it felt like it.

The couch was older than both of us combined, held together by sheer willpower, patchwork, and duct tape. And the kitchen was epic. He had one hot plate because the stove "liked to take the day off."

"This couch is, hands down, the best thing in this apartment," he said proudly one night. "It's basically a luxury mattress in disguise."

I sat down and promptly felt a spring jab into my spine. "Jack, this thing is trying to assassinate me."

He just laughed. "Give it a chance. It grows on you."

"Like mold?" I teased, shifting to avoid another spring attack.

"Hey now, be nice to Martha."

I stared at him. "You named your murderous couch Martha?"

"Of course! She's part of the family," he said, patting the armrest affectionately. "Plus, she's seen me through some tough times. Ramen noodle dinners, late-night movie marathons..."

"Speaking of dinner," I glanced at his hot plate skeptically, "how do you survive with just that thing?"

He shrugged, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. "You'd be surprised what you can make with one burner and determination. Want to see my specialty? I make a mean instant ramen with an egg on top."

"Fancy," I laughed, but my heart melted a little at how he could make even the simplest things sound special.

I wasn't in this relationship for luxury. I didn't care about fancy dinners or high-rise apartments. I liked Jack for being who he really was. And despite his questionable living conditions, I was happy.

Fast forward to our first anniversary...

I was buzzing with excitement. Jack had planned a surprise, and I was expecting something sweet... maybe a homemade dinner, some dollar-store candles, and a rom-com we'd mock together.

"Close your eyes when you open the door," he called from outside my door. "No peeking!"

"If you're bringing me another plant from that sketchy street vendor, I swear —"

What I wasn't expecting was to step outside and see Jack casually leaning against a sleek, jaw-droppingly expensive car. The kind you only see in movies or owned by CEOs with private jets.

He grinned, holding out a bouquet of deep red roses. "Happy anniversary, babe."

I blinked at him. Then at the car. Then back at him. "Whose car is this?"

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Mine."

I laughed. "No, seriously."

He didn't laugh back.

That's when he dropped the bombshell.

For the past year, Jack had been "testing me." He wasn't just some logistics guy scraping by. He was the heir to a multi-million-dollar family business. The apartment was fake. He had rented a cheap place on purpose to make sure I wasn't dating him for his money.