Everyone thought I married Richard for his money.
They weren’t entirely wrong.
I was thirty-two, drowning in bills, working two jobs, and one missed paycheck away from losing my apartment.
Richard was seventy-three, wealthy, widowed, and lonely in a way rich people sometimes tried to hide behind marble floors, expensive watches, and enormous houses.
We met at a charity dinner.
I wasn’t a guest.
I was working.
That distinction mattered to me then.
I had spent most of my adult life learning how to smile at people who never bothered to remember my name.
That night, I was carrying champagne through a ballroom filled with people who wore clothes that cost more than my car.
My feet were killing me.
I’d been standing for almost six hours.
At one point, I leaned against a pillar for only a few seconds.
That’s when I heard a man’s voice.
“Are you allowed to sit?”
I turned around.
An older man in a dark suit was standing beside me.
I immediately straightened.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
He frowned.
“I didn’t ask you to apologize.”
I looked at him carefully.
He had silver hair, tired eyes, and the kind of expensive watch I knew I could never afford.
