When my husband fell seriously ill, I finally had a reason to step into his office after seven years of marriage. All I wanted was to ask for his sick leave. Instead, the receptionist froze, eyes widening as she studied my face. “The man you’re talking about… he owns this company. Our boss and his wife arrive and leave together every day. Unless… you’re not his wife.” In that second, my world cracked open.

With the entire elite of the city watching, camera phones starting to appear at the edges of the crowd, Genevieve had no choice. Her fingers fumbled at the clasp. The necklace slipped from her throat into the officer’s waiting evidence bag with a soft, final clink.

I stepped closer to Steven, leaning in so only he could hear me.

“Eight years,” I murmured. “You owe me for every single day.”

His hands trembled around the papers he’d just been served.

The fallout began immediately. News outlets loved nothing more than a good scandal, and this one had everything—money, betrayal, deception, and a visually compelling story of a rich man lying to his “simple” wife.

Ethan knew exactly how to feed them.

He released a carefully curated narrative: the photo of my old apartment with the peeling wallpaper, juxtaposed with a glossy magazine shot of Steven in his penthouse. The story of my dowry card. The timeline of his rise and my poverty. The emergency room report.

“Billionaire fakes poverty to wife for a decade,” one headline screamed.

“Dowry startup: how Apex Tech was built on deception,” said another.

Investors began to panic. Apex Tech’s stock took a hit. The board started to whisper. Shareholders don’t enjoy discovering that the face of their company is trending online not for innovation, but for being an emotionally bankrupt husband.

Two weeks later, he came to see me.

He still had a key to the apartment, but he discovered what I’d done when he tried it and the lock refused him.

He pounded on the door until the neighbor’s dog started barking.

“Sunny!” he shouted. “Open the door. We need to talk.”

I opened it just enough to slide the security chain in place. He looked as if he’d aged ten years in fourteen days. Dark circles smudged under his eyes. His hair was messier, his normally immaculate clothes wrinkled.

“Unfreeze the accounts,” he demanded, skipping any greeting. “The board is threatening to vote me out. I can’t pay suppliers. I can’t pay staff. Genevieve—”

He broke off, swallowing.

“She’s staying at a hotel,” he continued, “and I can’t even pay the bill.”

“Genevieve is a smart girl,” I said calmly. “I’m sure she has other friends with unfrozen credit cards.”