Every time my billionaire husband brings his latest mistress home, he graciously leaves a gorgeous college boy in my bed as a consolation prize. “I need a little excitement, you need company. Fair trade. No hard feelings.” That’s what Asher always says, like he’s negotiating a merger instead of cheating on his wife. This time, though, he really screwed up. He drags another boy toy into our living room, then pulls me aside with that smooth, coaxing voice of his. “Chloe got pregnant. We tried everything, but she wants to keep it, and she won’t unless I make her my wife.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear like he’s doing me a favor. “So we’re getting a quick divorce. Temporary. Just until the baby’s born.” “And before we remarry, you can have your fun with him. I won’t say a word.” Behind us, his entourage of leeches is already pouring whiskey. Later, when I’m out of earshot, one of them whispers, “Damn, Asher. You crawled a hundred miles on your knees for that woman. You’re really just gonna hand her over?” “Yeah, man. You didn’t even tell the kid to keep his hands off her?” Asher takes a long, lazy drag of his cigarette. “I’m not into cuckold porn, gentlemen.” “Scarlett’s a prude. A trophy wife with a stick up her ass. She won’t touch him.” “Genius, Ash. Pure genius. You bring the boy home, she sends him away, and somehow you end up the good guy. Hat’s off.” They’re already laughing, already counting their winnings, because every single time before, I played my part. Cold face. Fat check. “Get out of my house.” I’m sitting on the velvet armchair across the room, scrolling my phone, pretending I can’t hear them. Then I look up and smile. “Sure. Whatever you want.” Asher’s cigarette freezes halfway to his lips. The room goes dead silent. Lena recovers first. “Scarlett, sweetie— what did you just say?” I set my phone down on the coffee table. My eyes drift past Asher and land on the boy still standing awkwardly by the staircase. “I said yes.” I let my gaze sweep him from head to toe, slow and appraising. “He’s not bad looking, I’ll give you that.” Someone actually gasps. “She agreed?!” “No way. She’s not kicking him out this time?” “Asher, did you hear that?” Asher’s expression doesn’t shift. That lazy half-smirk is still glued to his mouth. But Chloe, the pregnant princess, suddenly clings tighter to his arm. “Ash, baby, sis finally came around. You should be happy.” He doesn’t answer her. He grinds his cigarette into the crystal ashtray, walks over to the boy, and claps him on the shoulder. “Take good care of her tonight.” Then he loops an arm around Chloe’s waist and walks her up the stairs. I turn to the boy. He’s still standing there, ears glowing red. “You commute, or are you staying?” His Adam’s apple bobs. “Whatever— whatever you want.” “Then stay.” I walk down the hallway, and the whispers start up behind me like static. “Wait, is she serious?” “Last time she pulled this, half of us caught a beating from Asher!” “Relax. She’s bluffing. She always bluffs. Like touching one of those boys would melt her precious skin off.” “Remember the football player? She literally had security drag him out by his collar.” “Nah, this time she’s just rattled. The pregnancy spooked her. She’ll fold by morning.” I keep walking. Their words pelt my back like little needles. Not deep. Just everywhere. And the worst part? They’re right. For three years, I’ve been exactly that woman. Too proud. Too icy. Too convinced that the words “I’m a prude” were some kind of holy shield. Every time Asher paraded a new boy in front of me, I’d hand over a check and toss him out like trash. I told myself that was winning. That at least I was the clean one in this filthy marriage. And now? Chloe’s belly is showing. My “purity” didn’t save a damn thing. Just bought me a divorce decree, a cold side of the bed, and a living room full of vultures laughing behind my back.
I push open the bedroom door upstairs. “This is it.” Then I lean against the doorframe and really look at him. Jace Holloway. Six-foot-two. Valedictorian. Top-ranked moot court champion at his law school. Full ride to grad school, dean’s list every semester. Asher really splurged this time. No more random gym rat from a downtown bar. “Selling yourself for cash?” I ask. He nods. No hesitation. No excuses. The old Scarlett would’ve smirked, tossed a few thousand at his feet, and snapped, “Take it and get lost.” God, I used to feel so righteous doing that. Standing on my little moral pedestal, waving my prudishness around like a sword. As if any boy who touched me would somehow stain me. As if Asher’s parade of pretty things were dirty just for showing up. And what did all that purity get me? The “dirty things” left. Asher never came back to me anyway. Honestly? Which one of those boys was ever dirtier than the man who sent them? “Tell the housekeeper if you need anything,” I say. I walk past him into the room. He follows, quiet, careful. “My name’s Jace.” “I know. Asher told me.” I keep walking, straight to the balcony. He doesn’t follow. Doesn’t push. Smart boy. Down on the lawn, Asher’s friends are starting to scatter. I watch their backs disappear into the night, one black sedan after another. I’ve lost count of how many times they’ve watched me get humiliated. When I come back inside, my eyes catch on the divorce papers sitting on the nightstand. Three years. Three years of looking the other way every time Asher pulled some new stunt. Because of what happened back then. Because something broke between us, and neither one of us knew how to fix it. He had his reasons. I had mine. Debts always come due. In the beginning, I told him: just don’t bring them home. Then it became: just don’t get one of them pregnant. I kept retreating. He kept advancing. And now we’re both tired. I pick up the pen and sign my name. The bathroom door clicks open. Jace walks out, hair still dripping, a towel slung low around his waist. The second he sees me, his ears flush bright red. “Sorry— I just got out—” I stand up. God, Asher really picked a blusher this time. The other boys, the ones I sent away with checks, they always had a flicker of resentment in their eyes. One of them actually shouted at me: “Are you and your husband sick? One of you pushing me in, the other shoving me out— what the hell am I, a prop?” I’d just stared him down. “Take the money and shut up.” Looking back, the kid was right. We are sick. Both of us. One with a cuckold fetish. One with a frigid martyr complex.
My phone lights up. A text from Asher: Get some sleep. I stare at those three words and almost laugh. He’s never sent me anything like that. Not once in three years. But tonight? Tonight he sends it. Because Jace is still in my room? Because the great Asher Vance is finally starting to wonder if his prudish little wife might actually go through with it this time? I don’t reply. Outside, the last lights in the estate flick off. The whole house goes still. Chloe’s moved in. Jace has moved in. This place finally looks like what it is. A trash can. Stuffed with whatever anyone feels like dumping in. Including me. I turn off the lamp. There’s a smile on my mouth I can’t even see. He thinks I’m still the old Scarlett. He thinks I won’t. He thinks I never could. He thinks my so-called purity will hold the line forever. He’s wrong. — The next morning, my lower back still aches from a night of bad sleep. Jace is in the kitchen helping Maria, our housekeeper. When he sees me coming down the stairs, the spatula nearly slips out of his hand. I smile at him. Where’s all that smoldering eye contact from last night, kid? I’ve barely sat down when Asher strolls into the dining room. “You’re up early.” He drops into the chair across from me, smirking like he knows a punchline I don’t. “How was your night?” Before I can answer, the front door bangs open. Tyler Brooks comes barreling in first. “Ash! Ash, who won? Who won?!” “I bet twenty grand she folded before noon!” “I bet she kicked him out before midnight! Three to one odds, Ash, you’re holding the pot—” He stops dead when he sees me at the table. Three grown men, all suddenly very interested in their shoes. “Scarlett. Hey. Morning.” Asher picks up his coffee. Takes a slow, satisfied sip. Like the bet his buddies just placed on his marriage is some kind of trophy. “Sit down, boys. Breakfast is ready.” I stand up and walk toward the kitchen. “You should head to class,” I tell Jace. He blinks, unties the apron, and slips out the front door without a word. The door clicks shut. Two seconds of silence in the dining room. Then Tyler stage-whispers, “See? Told you. Sent him packing first thing in the morning.” Big Ron laughs. “What, you doubted Asher? That man can read his wife like a goddamn paperback.” “That’s why Asher’s the king,” Tyler says, all worship. “You wanna marry one of these, boys? Find one who knows her place.” Asher leans back in his chair, eggs already gone, that smirk still hanging on his lips. Drinking it in. I exhale slowly and walk back into the dining room. Asher and I open our mouths at the exact same second— “Have dinner at my parents’ place tonight—” “Two o’clock. Courthouse. Be there.”
The dining room goes still. I drop the signed divorce papers right on the table between us. “Let’s get this done.” Asher freezes for a second. His eyes drop to the signature line. He doesn’t move. I know exactly what he’s thinking. The old me would’ve ripped that paper in half with shaking hands. Cried. Screamed, “Asher, you don’t get to just decide we’re done!” Made him chase me around the house for hours before anything got signed. He looks up at me, that same lazy drawl in his voice. “What’s the rush, baby? I told you, we’ll handle it after Chloe’s first trimester.” “I can’t wait that long,” I say. “Two o’clock. Courthouse. Are you coming or not?” His eyelid twitches. “Scarlett.” He pushes the papers back toward the middle of the table. “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” “Better sign before you wake up too,” I shoot back. “Otherwise you’ll change your mind and tear it up again.” The silence stretches. Then Chloe comes drifting down the staircase like a ghost in a silk robe. “Sis, please don’t be upset. I just— I don’t want my baby labeled illegitimate, that’s all.” Her voice cracks beautifully. “The divorce can wait until after the first trimester, really!” Her eyes are already brimming. She looks more torn up about my marriage than I do. Asher glances at her. That tragic little face. That trembling lip. That soft “don’t be upset”— it lands on his ego like a slap. When did Asher Vance ever get rushed into a divorce? “You think I won’t sign?” He laughs once, sharp, and grabs the pen. Tyler jumps up. “Ash, hold on—” “Shut up.” Asher doesn’t even look at him. He scrawls his name and slams the pen down. That signature smirk crawls right back onto his mouth. “There. You all witnessed it.” He nods at his entourage. “After the baby’s born, we remarry. Everyone heard me.” Then he leans down to my ear, voice dropping into something almost tender. “You’re the woman I dragged back from death itself, Scarlett. None of those girls out there hold a candle to you.” “This kid? He’ll be ours to raise. Only you get to be his mother. Got it?” I let out a soft laugh. So this is what he calls love. I don’t say a word. I just grab the suitcase I packed last night and walk out the front door. Behind me, Chloe’s voice floats out, soft as cotton: “Ash… she’s not really leaving for good, is she?” Asher doesn’t answer. Originally his plan was clean and tidy. Divorce on paper, but I keep my room. My closet. My place at the dining table. The illusion of a wife, parked in the corner like a vase. Me actually leaving? Wasn’t in the script. But it doesn’t matter. Not to him. “You little troublemaker,” he murmurs to Chloe, brushing her hair back. “Bet you’re loving this, huh?” “That’s not fair!” Chloe pouts. “You always tease me. I’d never break up someone’s marriage on purpose— my conscience won’t let me.” She rests her hand on her belly, eyes shining. “It’s all for the baby.”
She looks like a wilted little flower in a storm. Asher melts. “Okay, okay. No more teasing. I’m sorry.” I’ll give Chloe this much— she’s smarter than the rest of them. She doesn’t post passive-aggressive captions on Instagram. Doesn’t call me to flex about whose bed Asher’s in tonight. Doesn’t text me photos of his hand on her thigh. She plays the wide-eyed innocent. “I’m just trying to fit in! I’d never come between you two!” One sharp word from me, and Asher’s already convinced she’s the victim. I’ve seen prettier girls. Younger ones. Bolder ones. They all crashed and burned because they were in too much of a hurry. Pushing him to commit. Texting me to back off. Chloe? Chloe just moved in. Belly first. Calling me “sis” like we’re family. She did what none of them could. — 1:50 p.m. I’m sitting on a wooden bench outside the courthouse. I’ve called Asher nine times. This time he picks up. “Where are you?” I ask. His voice is so casual it’s insulting. “I’m at Chloe’s prenatal appointment. Can’t really leave. I’ll swing by when we’re done.” “I told you. Two o’clock. Divorce filing.” “The divorce isn’t going anywhere, sweetheart.” Like he’s coaxing a tantruming toddler. “Wait till Chloe’s done with her ultrasound. Talk later.” He hangs up. Wait. Always wait. I look around the lobby. Couples shuffling in and out. Some dabbing their eyes. Some staring straight through the wall. Some signing with steady, expressionless hands. I used to cry like that. The full breakdown. Begging. Snot and mascara everywhere. And every time, Asher would soften, pull me back, and reward me with a “fine, we won’t get divorced.” Like that was a prize. Today I’m done collecting his prizes. A clerk calls the next number. I pull up my contacts and text my lawyer: Megan— file for divorce. Contested. I’ll send the paperwork over this afternoon. — That night, after my father-in-law’s third call, I drive out to the Vance estate alone. The whole way there I’m rehearsing. How do I tell the old man? That his son knocked up his side piece? That he’s pressuring me to sign? That I’m filing in court? Family politics. Sometimes they’re worse than the actual lawsuit. I show up alone. The old man pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “Where’s Asher?” “Busy.” “Busy?” He sets the fork down hard. “What the hell is more important than his wife?” I don’t answer. Mr. Vance and my late father were brothers in everything but blood. They served together. Bled together. He’d wanted Asher and me married since we were kids. His wife wasn’t sold. My family wasn’t rich enough. I’d been seriously sick as a teenager, and she decided my “energy” was wrong for her son. But Asher refused to walk away. He drove out to St. Bartholomew’s, the old cathedral on the hill, and walked the entire mile-long stone pilgrimage path on his knees. A hundred steps. By the end, his knees were raw and bloody. He knelt at the altar and said: “I don’t need to be with Scarlett. I just need her to be okay.” When I heard about it, I cried for two days straight. He was always the one running toward me. I was always the one shrinking back, scared I wasn’t enough. After that I grabbed his hand and said, “I’m done hiding. If you want to marry me, I’ll say yes.” I got better. I went home with him. The old man was so happy he transferred a third of his stock options into my name as my dowry. “For the family to see,” he said. “So you’re protected.” Back then I thought Asher’s mother was the worst thing standing between us. Now I know. Outsiders never destroy a marriage. Only the two people inside it can do that.
I’m still figuring out how to start when the door swings open. Asher walks in with Chloe tucked under his arm. He sees me and stops short. The old man’s face goes black. “You bastard. You bring that girl into my house?” Asher just pulls out a chair for Chloe, easy as anything. “Dad, relax. It’s just dinner.” Then he glances at me. “Scarlett, head home. I’ll deal with you later.” Like I’m an inconvenience he double-booked. He leans in, lowers his voice like he’s doing me a courtesy. “I didn’t think you’d actually show.Tonight Chloe’s the one I’m here for, okay?” I laugh. She’s the one he’s here for. He’s running cover for a mistress. Bringing her to family dinner before the ink on our divorce is dry. I used to think Chloe was a phase. New toy, fresh smell, gone in a few months when he got bored. Guess I had that one wrong. Then his mother walks in. Her eyes slide over me, then over Chloe. “So this is the pregnant one? Lovely. We just collect strays now, do we?” One sentence. Two women insulted. The Asher I used to know would’ve stepped in front of me. “Scarlett is the woman I chose. Watch your mouth.” Tonight he just frowns and pulls Chloe closer. “Mom. Don’t talk about my woman like that.” Sharper than he ever was when he was protecting me. Chloe melts into his shoulder, eyes glistening, the perfect picture of a fragile thing under attack. She always looks like the world is bullying her. Not like me. I get insulted and my face doesn’t even move. Whatever they throw at me, I just swallow it. I stand up. “I’m leaving.” The old man calls after me. He can’t make me stay. Asher doesn’t even look up. The second I’m through the front gate, I think about that pilgrimage. The cathedral steps. The bloody knees. “I don’t need to be with Scarlett. I just need her to be okay.” Well. He got his wish. — The divorce moves faster than I expected. Asher figures we’ll be remarried by Christmas anyway— Chloe pops the kid out, they hand it off to the housekeeper, life resumes. The day we sign the settlement, he shows up forty minutes late. But he signs. Smooth. No fuss. Then he leans toward me, voice dropping into something almost coaxing. “You always wanted a wedding, didn’t you?” “When we remarry, I’ll throw you the real thing. The beach you love. The white dress you used to dog-ear in magazines. Whatever you want. I’ll give you all of it.” I look up at him. “Asher. Don’t bother.”
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