The Ex-Wife's Perfect Lie

The reporters packed the place so tightly that I could barely breathe, and plenty of my fellow delivery riders had stopped to watch the spectacle.

"What a nice car! With that kind of car, which billionaire heiress showed up here?"

Following their stares, I saw Shirley Pearce standing not far away, staring at me with those longing eyes. She looked as polished as ever, her makeup perfect without a single flaw.

As I looked at her, my mind went blank for just a moment.

Memories flashed through my head like a movie as I recalled her testimony in court, the red paint from bankrupt investors, and Dad's eyes still open when he died.

Nonetheless, it was only a moment.

For the person I had become, that 50-billion-dollar mess from years ago felt less real than the five bucks I would lose if the delivery ran late.

My expression stayed flat as I looked away, twisted the throttle on my scooter, and spoke coolly to Shirley. "Move it. I'm on the clock."

The reporters went crazy, shoving microphones in my face.

Someone even grabbed my handlebars and shouted, "Mr. Quinn! Ms. Pearce waited six whole years for you. Isn't your reaction a bit cold? Are you rushing off because you feel guilty facing the ex-wife who paid off all your debts?"

"Enough!"

Shirley stepped forward, her eyes turning teary as she looked at me with that devoted expression, her voice trembling. "Marcus, I came to take you home."

My knuckles turned white gripping the handlebars, veins bulging on the back of my hand.

The other delivery drivers around us had all stopped working, whispering amongst themselves, their eyes full of envy and jealousy.

"Marcus is always so quiet, but his ex-wife is actually that loaded."

"She's not just an ex-wife, she's a living saint! I heard she paid off all of the debt for him."

"Marcus is about to have it made. Living off a woman is still a skill."

I did not move. I merely looked down at my worn-out sneakers with the soles coming apart.

"Excuse me, I've got deliveries to make," I said, my voice coming out hoarse.

The veins on the back of my hand bulged as I gripped the handlebars. There was no way Shirley missed me. She probably just wanted to see if I was dead yet.

Back in court, when she sobbed and testified that I embezzled company funds to support a boy toy, she had worn that same expression.

I took a deep breath and looked up at her. "Ms. Pearce, you're doing too much. Keep it up, and you'll blow your cover."

Shirley's face stiffened, but she quickly recovered that pitiful look. "I know you hate me, but back then, I had no choice..."

A sharp sound cut off her performance. My helmet had fallen off the scooter and rolled to her feet.

Shirley instinctively stepped back half a step, her face scrunching up in disgust. Despite that, she immediately crouched down to pick up the helmet for me.

"Look at you, still so careless," she said as she held that scratched-up helmet like it was some priceless treasure.

The reporters went wild capturing the moment.

I watched her coldly, feeling nothing but contempt.