Chapter 3

Henry and I got together in college.

He'd tested out of poverty-stricken rural nowhere, top of our entire department.

My parents didn't approve.

They said we were from different worlds, and I'd suffer for it later.

I didn't listen. After graduation, I left with him.

When he was starting his business, we lived in a basement to save money.

Water pipes ran across the ceiling. The sound of upstairs neighbors flushing toilets echoed through the night. The dampness was so heavy our bedding never dried.

He held me and said I'm sorry you have to go through this. I said it's not hard, as long as you're here.

When we were young, we thought that was forever.

Neither of us expected my mom would be diagnosed with cancer then.

So when his mother handed me that five million dollar check, I took it.

Then I broke up with him.

He asked me why. I said I was tired, didn't love him anymore, didn't want to live in poverty.

He stared at me for a long time, his gaze heavy, and said, "Hudson, don't regret this."

Later, when he came to marry me, I thought he'd uncovered the truth.

Instead, it was his carefully planned revenge.

At first, I did think about telling him the truth.

Not long after we married, I gathered courage for ages and told him everything about what happened back then, from beginning to end.

But after listening, he looked at me like I was a joke:

"Hudson, you're better at making up stories than you are at having taste."

He didn't believe me. So I stopped trying.

I thought if I was good enough to him, he'd eventually see.

He was picky about food, so I got up at five every morning to make congee.

He had lots of business dinners, so I'd make hangover soup and wait for him every night.

He was a perfectionist—shirts had to be hand-washed, collars had to be pressed. I did all of it myself. Until he started bringing other women home.

The first was a minor celebrity, the second was an investment banker, the third I didn't recognize.

Every one of them wore perfect makeup, had killer bodies, and carried themselves with elegance.

That night at 2 AM, he brought yet another strange woman through the door.

This time, I finally broke down.

I stood in the hallway, eyes red, blocking his path.

"Henry, please don't do this."

He glanced at me like I was a piece of furniture in the way.

"Move."

"I can pretend nothing happened, just leave me some dignity..."

"Dignity?"

He laughed. "A woman who'd do anything for money wants to talk to me about dignity?"

He walked past me with that woman in his arms, his words cutting like ice.

"You're no different from them. Except they have clear prices. You don't even need to name one."

My heart felt like it had been stabbed clean through, one strike fatal. After that, I never tried to stop him from bringing women home again.

But I started having sleepless nights, sitting on the living room sofa waiting for dawn.

That's when my stomach problems started. At first it only hurt when I ate.

Later it got worse and worse, eventually hurting so badly I'd shake all over.

But he only gave me a hundred dollars a month for living expenses. I couldn't even afford decent stomach medicine.

I could only hide it from him and work as a waitress, serving plates from 5 PM to 3 AM, earning eighty dollars a day.