Chapter 2

My version of the 50/50 lifestyle was now in full swing.

On a material level, I upgraded everything to the highest quality my money could buy.

I completely overhauled my skincare routine.

My vanity table was lined not just with high-end designer brands, but also custom-formulated serums tailored specifically to my skin type.

Every time I applied those expensive creams, I reminded myself: "I am worth it."

I didn't hold back on rewarding myself, either.

When a major project went well, I didn't even blink before buying a designer necklace I had eyed for months.

I also threw out the cheap mattress in our master bedroom—the one Tristan had bought to save money, which gave me terrible back pain—and replaced it with a top-of-the-line smart orthopedic mattress. It cost five figures.

The day it was delivered, Tristan’s face turned completely pale.

"Valerie! This... this is pure waste! Was there something wrong with the old mattress?"

He pointed at the new mattress, his finger trembling.

I was busy directing the delivery guys to haul away the old one. Hearing his voice, I turned around and looked at him in mock surprise.

"Wasteful? According to section 4 of our agreement, capital purchases made to improve personal living comfort are to be paid for by the individual. I bought this mattress. I used my own money to improve my own sleep quality."

"Is there a problem? Or are you saying you don't want to do 50/50 anymore?"

Tristan’s face flushed red, then went white. Of course he remembered the clauses in the agreement.

Back then, he thought these were minor details. After all, how many capital assets could a woman buy?

He never expected me to play the long game.

"You... you’re just exploiting loopholes!" he sputtered after a long silence.

I smiled, walked over to the new mattress, and sat down gently, feeling the perfect, luxurious support.

"Loopholes? Tristan, you wrote these rules in black and white. I'm just following them better than you. If you're not happy, you can propose an amendment. But of course, it requires my consent."

His chest heaved with anger, but ultimately, he said nothing. He just slammed the door and walked out.

I knew he couldn't bring himself to scrap the agreement.

That contract was his masterpiece, the symbol of his control and twisted sense of fairness. To deny the agreement would be to deny his own intelligence.

With the addition of the new mattress, a high-end aromatherapy diffuser, and plush velvet throws, my bedroom became a luxurious, cozy sanctuary. Meanwhile, the common areas like the living room and kitchen, neglected by Tristan’s extreme cheapness, looked increasingly barren and lifeless.

He watched me walk out the door every morning looking radiant, carrying designer bags and wearing perfectly tailored professional suits. He watched me come home glowing, smelling faintly of high-end restaurants, or flushed with healthy energy after a workout.

His gaze went from indifference to shock, and finally to a desperate, unpromotable jealousy.

He started picking fights over the pettiest things.

For instance, he accused me of taking too long in the shower, wasting the water we split 50/50.

He complained that I set the thermostat too low, inflating our shared electricity bill.

He even made a passive-aggressive comment when I replaced our old humidifier with a sleek, smart one.

"Wow, even the air in this house is getting too expensive for me to breathe."

I shut him down every single time using the clauses of his beloved agreement.

"Clause 8 states that differences in utility consumption caused by individual lifestyle habits fall under reasonable variance and will not be calculated separately."

"As for the thermostat, Appendix 2 clearly states that the recommended AC temperature for summer is 78 degrees. I set it to 76, which is within the reasonable two-degree variance. If you're cold, put on a sweater."

"And the humidifier? That’s a personal device to improve my local environment. Are you suggesting personal appliance energy should be billed to the household? Do you want me to call our family attorney to interpret this for you?"

Every time, he was left utterly speechless, walking away with a sour face.

I knew he was holding it in.

And his mother, who always took his side, kept sending preachy voice notes in our group chat about how a wife should be thrifty and submissive.

They were waiting for an opportunity. A chance to blow things out of proportion and regain control.

But I wasn't worried at all.

I kept working hard, making money, and spending it unapologetically on myself.

On my personal budgeting app, every single dollar of my personal spending was accounted for with crystal-clarity.