In the end, it wasn’t about money; it was about finally naming the cost. As she itemized hotel tips, emotional hand-holding, and “just one more favor,” he understood that love without respect is a tab that never stops running. The side hustle wasn’t greed. It was survival—proof that her time and sanity were not a bottomless, free buffet.
Across town, the woman in the almost-parking-spot chose a different kind of invoice. She let the red Mercedes slide smugly into the space, but refused to shrink. Her stare said what her voice didn’t need to: I saw that. I saw you. She walked away with no receipt, no payment, just the quiet profit of knowing her worth—and a story that would outlast his engine’s roar.
