Gold Digger vs Gold Saver My Man's Double Life novel Chapter 1

**Marriage Without Temperature** by Mark Twain

**Chapter 1**

Three days had elapsed, each one heavier than the last, wrapped in a stifling silence that felt like a thick fog settling over my heart. The unspoken conflict revolved around a seemingly mundane question: would my fiancé ever purchase me a proper engagement ring? What should have been a simple discussion had morphed into a battlefield of emotions, each of us entrenched in our positions. It was well past 3 AM when I found myself aimlessly scrolling through Reddit, seeking refuge in the digital realm from the gnawing anxiety that had taken root in my chest.

It was then that I stumbled upon a post that struck a chord deep within me.

**[[Serious] I’m an escort and I fell in love with the ER doctor who treated my injuries.]**

The title was magnetic, drawing me in like a moth to a flickering flame. My thumb hovered over the screen, a moment of hesitation before I succumbed to the allure of the story that awaited me. As I delved into the original poster’s (OP) account, I was captivated by their journey—their initial meeting, the undeniable chemistry, and the tumultuous intricacies of their relationship. But one detail ignited a wildfire of comments that caught my attention:

The doctor had spent every last cent of his life savings on gold jewelry, securing a year of the escort’s time to ensure she wouldn’t have to return to her previous life.

The comment section erupted into a frenzy:

**[I’m trash and I LIVE for these Pretty Woman rescue plots!]**

**[OMG this is real-life redemption arc energy. You two better get your HEA or I’m rioting!]**

**[Fun fact: Gold jewelry counts as separate property in most states AND you can liquidate it anytime. That’s not just love—that’s PROTECTION. This man gets it.]**

I watched in disbelief as hundreds of strangers gushed over this modern fairy tale, their excitement palpable even through the screen.

Then, an update from the OP appeared, shifting the tone entirely:

**[He’s the first person who ever made me feel like I mattered. The only reason he kept turning me down was because he’s engaged. They’re getting married soon.]**

**[I’ve thrown myself at him so many times. Tonight he finally stopped fighting it. I know this makes me terrible, but I love him too much to care.]**

The comments turned vicious, morphing from adoration to condemnation in the blink of an eye. The word “homewrecker” echoed through the digital space, sharp and unforgiving.

Amidst the chaos, a photo was shared—a man sleeping peacefully, captured from the side, the soft glow of a dim lamp casting a warm light over his features.

My heart plummeted into my stomach.

I recognized that face.

It was my fiancé.

After three days of silence, wrestling with the question of whether he would ever buy me a proper engagement ring, I was now confronted with this shocking revelation.

That face belonged to Grant.

Dr. Grant Archer—my fiancé, my partner since our days in medical school, the man I was supposed to marry in just four short months.

The same man who had, merely days ago, dismissed my longing for an engagement ring as a “De Beers scam,” insisting that our hard-earned money would be better allocated toward our mortgage.

“Olivia, we’re both educated individuals. Why are we holding onto these outdated traditions?”

His words had struck me like a slap, delivered with that infuriating expression he reserved for difficult patients—patience stretched thin, his brow furrowed in annoyance.

“Outdated? My parents aren’t asking for anything else. They just—”

“Just want you to flaunt some rock around so everyone knows you married up?”

He had cut me off, his voice sharp as glass. “If you need a ring to prove I’m committed, maybe we shouldn’t be doing this at all.”

The argument had ended with him slamming the door so hard that the frame had shuddered in response.

An hour later, I received a text: **Emergency surgery. Don’t wait up.**

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