Some love stories begin with roses. Ours began with spilled coffee, sarcastic banter, and a couch named Martha.
I met Jack by accidentally drenching his documents in latte. Instead of getting mad, he laughed—and we clicked instantly. He lived in a dingy studio with a haunted heater and fed me ramen like it was gourmet. I fell for him, broke couch and all.
On our one-year anniversary, he surprised me with a luxury car and a proposal. That’s when he revealed: the apartment, the heater, Martha—were all part of a test. He was actually heir to a massive company. He wanted to make sure I loved *him*, not his money.
I didn’t scream. I handed him the car keys.
“Get in. I have something to show you.”
I drove him to *my* childhood home. Massive gates. Fountains. Hedge maze.
Surprise—I was rich too.
We laughed until we cried. Turns out, we were both pretending to be broke for love.
Six months later, we married in style—with both families horrified and amused.
Moral? Love doesn’t care about money. It finds you in ramen kitchens, fake stains, and the laughter that follows total honesty.
**And yes—Martha the couch came with us.**
