Chapter 2

"Dad, stop talking. Save your strength. We'll get you into surgery, and then you'll be okay. You'll be fine…"

The words tumbled out of me, frantic and senseless.

Dad only shook his head again. Then his eyes slowly closed.

My father died over 138 dollars. I stayed on my knees beside his bed, clutching his hand as its warmth gradually left. The nurses came to get me three times before I finally let go.

By the time I walked out of the hospital, night had fallen. The streetlights stretched my shadow across the pavement, long and thin, like the last three years of my life. Three years in which my pride had been stripped away piece by piece until there was almost nothing left.

I took out my phone and sent Marilyn a text. "I want a divorce."

I boarded the first bus that came. Apart from the driver, I was the only person on it. I took a seat by the window and rested my head against the glass. I found myself thinking back to five years ago.

I was a college senior then, working overnight shifts at a 24-hour diner. Marilyn was one of our regulars. She always ordered black coffee and took the booth by the window, working quietly on her laptop for hours.

One night, a drunk woman grabbed my arm and refused to let go until I made her what she called "a cocktail for falling in love".

Before I could figure out how to get rid of her without causing a scene, Marilyn closed her laptop. She walked over and stepped between us.

After that, she started showing up suspiciously close to the end of my shifts. Always by coincidence, of course. At least, that was what she claimed.

Eventually, she told me about her family. They were pressuring her to marry the son of one of their business partners. She said she was exhausted by people who treated every relationship like a negotiation and every kindness like an investment.

She wanted something uncomplicated, something real.

Then one night, sitting across from me in that nearly empty diner, Marilyn looked straight at me and said, "Lucian Sayer, you're nothing like the people I grew up around."

And I believed her. I thought that was love. I thought somehow, against all odds, an ordinary guy like me had been chosen by the beautiful woman who seemed to have everything.

I never stopped to wonder why a woman like Marilyn had chosen me in the first place. Back then, I was just stupid enough to think I'd gotten my fairy-tale ending.

For my birthday, Marilyn didn't buy me an expensive watch or some other flashy gift. She found me a complete first-edition box set of a graphic novel series I'd loved for years, one that had long been out of print.

Then she said, "Lucian, marry me. Let me give you a home."

Our wedding was small. Rushed, even. Marilyn told me her family was against the marriage, so we could make it legal first and have a proper ceremony once things settled down.

Dad held my hand that day, his eyes filled with tears. "As long as the two of you are happy, that's enough for me. I don't need anything else. I just want you to have a good life."

I thought that was exactly what I was getting. I thought it was the beginning of something safe. Then, in the second year of our marriage, Dad got sick.

The first time I asked Marilyn for money, she transferred 200,000 dollars without asking a single question.

The second time, she frowned, but she still sent it.

The third time, Callan just happened to be sitting beside her. He smiled at me and said, "You've been spending a lot of money lately, haven't you, Lucian?"

The fourth time, Marilyn asked, "What exactly is wrong with your father? Why does he constantly need more money?"

The fifth time I asked for help, she didn't send me anything. Instead, she said, "Put in a request through the company portal. We have procedures for this. It's better if everything is properly documented."

I had no idea how much Callan had been whispering in her ear. I only knew that from that day forward, I wasn't really Marilyn's husband anymore. I was another expense on her balance sheet, the kind that needed approval before I could so much as buy a bottle of water.

By the time I returned to the cold, sprawling house we supposedly called home, it was already afternoon. The enormous living room was empty.

I sat on the rug with the box Dad had left me cradled in my arms. This was what he'd spent some of his final strength trying to tell me to find.

Then I heard the electronic chime of the front door unlocking downstairs, followed by footsteps. Marilyn was home.

She didn't stop anywhere along the way. Her footsteps came straight upstairs and headed for the master bedroom. When she appeared in the doorway, her gaze swept across my face. She took in the tear tracks, the exhaustion, the dust still clinging to my clothes.

She didn't ask what had happened and didn't seem to notice anything was wrong at all. She walked into the room, shrugged off her coat, and tossed it carelessly onto the bed.

Then, loosening the silk scarf around her neck, she said in the same tone she used when giving orders at work. "Callan's coming over for dinner tonight. We need to go over the details of the new project. Get everything ready."

Still sitting on the floor, I looked up at the woman who, three years ago, had told me there was something pure about my eyes—the woman who had promised to give me a home. And the woman who had stood by and let her secretary decide that my father's life wasn't worth 138 dollars.