He Gave Me $800 and Expected Me to Stay?! Yeah, No… Watch Me Turn the Tables Chapter 03

He Gave Me $800 and Expected Me to Stay?! Yeah, No… Watch Me Turn the Tables Chapter 03

A month later. 

My little stall had completely blown up at the night market. 

Every night, people were already lining up before I even set up. 

One night’s sales could hit over $1,000. 

After costs, I netted $700 or $800. 

Way better than being that miserable canary. 

I deposited every bit of what I earned into my bank account. 

The balance was closing in on $50,000. 

A customer had a suggestion: 

“Boss, you’re this pretty and the wraps are this good. You should go live.” 

Other people chimed in. 

“Yeah, go live and business will definitely go to the next level!” 

“I think you’re the night market’s Wrap Queen!” 

That same night I set up my phone and went live, 

The title was: [Down–and–Out Heiress Sells Breakfast Wraps at the 

Night Market, Making Over $1,000 a Day Is No Dream]. 

I didn’t expect that gimmick plus my clean technique would make me blow up overnight. 

Tens of thousands of people were watching the livestream every day. 

Every day, endless people showed up with their phones to check in. 

I was so busy I didn’t even have time for a sip of water. 

Tonight the livestream had already broken 50,000 viewers. 

The live comments were flying. 

“Boss, you’re this pretty. Why put yourself through this?” 

“Right? Why not just marry some rich guy?” 

“I think she just wants to go viral. She’s putting on a show on purpose.” 

I saw that comment and got so mad I laughed. 

The spatula in my hand banged against the griddle. 

“A show?” 

I rolled my eyes at the camera. 

“Why don’t you come stand by this stove and roast for five hours?” 

“And those of you telling me to find a rich guy.” 

‘I’d advise you to drop that idea ASAP.” 

I deftly poured egg into a wrap and switched on rant mode. 

“Kept woman this, gold digger that.” 

“Sounds glamorous. It’s actually just cheap labor!” 

“I make more in one day selling breakfast wraps!” 

The chat exploded instantly. 

“Holy shit, Boss has a story!” 

“Details on the canary gig!” 

“How cheap was the last boss, exactly?” 

I handed a finished wrap to a customer and wiped my sweat. 

“Cheap? That was Scrooge reincarnated!” 

“$3,000 a month, and they wanted me on call 24/7!” 

“Text at 2 a.m., reply five minutes late, that’s $500 docked!” 

“Show up at a drinking party and don’t intercept drinks, that’s $800 docked!” 

“Wouldn’t even cover the HOA fees, shut off the water and power, 

and left me dry–chewing expired cheap dried noodles!” 

The more I talked, the madder I got. 

“And in the end they slashed my $3,000 paycheck all the way down to $800!” 

“Like I was supposed to survive on scraps!” 

“I quit, ran off to sell breakfast wraps, and now I do $2,000 in sales a day!” 

“Isn’t that better than swallowing that bird–crap treatment?” 

The livestream completely blew up. 

“$3,000 a month for someone on call 24/7? Is this guy doing stand–up?” 

“Docked down to $800? That’s a level that would make a capitalist cry, for fuck’s sake!” 

“You’re not a gold digger. You’re a working–class hero!” 

“Streamer, that’s brutal. I’m buying ten breakfast wraps to support you!” 

I looked at the gift effects filling the screen, mood soaring. 

“Thanks to the number–one gifter for the rocket. So generous!” 

I was chatting it up with the viewers, 

when a commotion suddenly broke out beyond the crowd. 

“Rolls–Royce!” 

“How did that car even get into the night market?” 

“Everybody make way!” 

I looked up. 

I saw that ten–million–dollar luxury car parked like it owned the place, right in front of my cart. 

The door opened. 

A pair of polished custom leather shoes stepped onto the grease–stained ground. 

Vincent Sterling was wearing a perfectly tailored black suit. 

His face was so dark it looked like it could drip. 

He pushed through the crowd and strode up to me. 

One month apart, and he actually looked a little worn down. 

Everything around us went quiet in an instant. All that was left was the sizzle of hot oil on the griddle. 

Vincent Sterling accused me, eyes red. 

“Chloe Paige, I thought you were vacationing on an island. You’re out here selling garbage?*