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LIES, KANGAROO MEAT, AND THE MILLION-DOLLAR INSULT: A Saga of Broken Trust and Empty Wallets

The atmosphere is thick with tension, the kind that hangs heavy in the air before a summer storm. We are traversing the globe, witnessing love teeter on the precarious edge of disaster, where financial ruin and emotional betrayal wait in the shadows. In this dramatic retelling of 90 Day Fiancé: The Other Way, relationships aren’t just tested—they are put through a meat grinder, sometimes quite literally.

 

The Deception Down Under

 

We begin in Australia, where the sun is hot but the deception is chilling. Patia and Dylan are navigating a minefield of family dynamics. The specter of Dylan’s mother looms large over their relationship, a dark cloud that Patia cannot seem to shake. To Patia, this woman is the enemy, the architect of her insecurity. But Dylan, playing the role of the peacemaker—or perhaps the puppeteer—urges calm. He brings Patia into the fold, organizing a meet-up with his brother, Glenn.

The air is rife with dramatic irony. Patia, swallowing her pride, puts on a mask of civility. She speaks of Dylan’s mother with forced sweetness, calling her a “sweetheart,” despite the venom she feels internally. She is terrified of Glenn, warned by Dylan that his brother is a snake who will smile to her face and stab her in the back. But as the dinner progresses, one has to wonder: is Glenn the snake, or is the danger sitting right next to her?

The betrayal begins with a meal. Dylan, in a move that can only be described as twisted, serves Patia a dish without revealing its contents. She eats it. She enjoys it. She compares it to steak. Only then does Dylan drop the hammer with a smirk that suggests he enjoys the game too much: “It’s kangaroo.”

Patia is horrified. She has consumed the national symbol, an animal she finds cute and endearing. She feels a wave of guilt wash over her, staring at the meat as if it might hop off the plate. “I can’t eat you,” she thinks, sickened. But Dylan’s little prank is merely the appetizer for the main course of deceit.

Later, the tension explodes during a confrontation with Dylan’s mother. The air turns frigid as the matriarch demands to know why Patia has harbored such resentment. Patia, cornered but honest, lays her cards on the table. She recounts the poison Dylan dripped into her ear years ago: that his mother wished he was with a younger woman, someone who could give him children. It is a statement designed to destroy a woman’s self-worth.

The mother’s reaction is one of genuine baffle. She denies it vehemently. Dylan, sitting between the two women he claims to love, acts as though he has been struck with sudden amnesia. “I never said that,” he claims, his face the picture of innocence. Patia is left spinning. Is she crazy? Is this a conspiracy? “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” she thinks, sensing the gaslighting in real-time.

And then, the fourth wall breaks. In a moment of private confession away from Patia’s prying eyes, Dylan reveals the ugly truth. He did say it. He fabricated the lie, or at least weaponized a passing comment, simply to hurt Patia when he was angry. He admits to the manipulation. Back in the scene, Patia realizes she is trapped in a web of lies. The man she moved across the world for has been playing her against his own mother for years. The trust shatters like glass, and Patia is left questioning everything. “I don’t want to be in a relationship like that,” she vows, but is it too late?

The Café Catastrophe

Meanwhile, in India, the stakes are financial and the comedy is dark. Jenny and Sumit are standing on the precipice of their new venture—a café meant to secure their future. It is opening day. The pressure is immense. They need to recoup their investment; they need to prove the doubters wrong. “Assign yourself a job and don’t sit idle,” is the mantra.

But chaos reigns supreme. Jenny, tasked with the coffee machine, stares at the chrome beast as if it were the cockpit of an alien spaceship. She is lost. A customer arrives—their first customer. A cappuccino is ordered. It should be simple. It should be routine.

It becomes a disaster.

Jenny fumbles. She searches for milk. She presses buttons. Nothing happens. The machine is dead, silent, mocking her incompetence. Panic sets in. Sumit scrambles. The realization hits them with the force of a slap: the machine isn’t even plugged in. It is a comedy of errors, but nobody is laughing. As they fumble with cords and settings, time ticks away. The customer, tired of waiting for a simple cup of coffee, walks out.

The sale is lost. The first dollar is never made. “That’s a bad sale,” Sumit laments. The café, their beacon of hope, suddenly feels like a sinking ship, captained by two people who forgot to check the engine.

The Boston Ultimatum

Across the ocean, or perhaps in a limbo of visas and paperwork, Chloe and Johnny are facing a harsh reality check. Chloe’s mother has arrived, and she has not brought warmth; she has brought a calculator.

The discussion turns to the exorbitant cost of love. Visas are not free. They cost hundreds of dollars every few months, a slow bleed on a bank account that is already running on fumes. Chloe tries to explain their plan—a “partnership paper,” distinct from a marriage certificate. But the mother is having none of the vagueness. She demands specifics. She demands a plan.

Chloe fights back, accusing her mother of creating drama, of attacking her character. The conversation escalates, voices rising, old wounds reopening. But then, the mother plays her ace card. She offers a lifeline, but it is a lifeline that doubles as a leash.

“I would be able to support both of you,” she says, dazing them with the promise of financial security. “If you both moved to Boston.”

It is an ultimatum wrapped in a gift box. Security, rent-free living, stability—but at the cost of their independence? At the cost of living under the roof of the very people who criticize them? Chloe feels the walls closing in. The dynamic is toxic, the judgment is relentless. The offer lights a fire in her, not of gratitude, but of desperation to escape. She wants to run, to get the “hell out of there,” proving that sometimes, the price of free money is just too high.

The French Class War

Finally, we land in France, where the romance of the countryside is being dismantled by the brutal reality of class differences. Manon and Anthony are house hunting, but they are looking for two very different things. Anthony, the pragmatist, suggests an apartment to save money. Manon reacts with visceral horror.

“You will not put me in a cell jail!” she screams. To her, an apartment is a prison. She demands a house. She demands a pool. She demands a lifestyle that their bank account cannot support.

They tour a potential home. It has the pool Manon craves, the “piece de resistance.” She is enchanted, seeing a future of leisure and luxury. Anthony sees the rotting bones of the structure. He sees asbestos. He sees a money pit. The realtor tries to sell the dream, but Anthony is awake to the nightmare of renovation costs.

But the true explosion happens in the car ride aftermath. The conversation shifts to employment, and Manon delivers a blow so cutting, so emasculating, that it sucks the air out of the vehicle.

She looks at Anthony, the man trying to be responsible, and tells him that even if he finds a job in France, he is worthless in the marketplace compared to her. “You are never, ever going to be able to make like I do,” she sneers. She tells him he will be making “pennies.”

It is a moment of breathtaking cruelty. Anthony is stunned. He is trying to provide, trying to be rational, and she has reduced his efforts to pocket change. “It’s very hurtful to hear,” he admits, his pride wounded. Manon is unrelenting. She refuses to “survive” in France; she wants to thrive. She wants the champagne life on a beer budget, and she has made it clear that Anthony’s best will never be good enough.