It was Valentine's Day, and Sean Morton and I were tangled together on the bed, the heat between us still building.

That was when his personal secretary, Bernice Summers, pushed the door open and walked right in, her tone purely professional.

“Mr. Morton, intercourse duration has reached thirty-two minutes and ten seconds, exceeding the scheduled thirty-minute window. Please stop immediately.”

Sean pulled out and climbed off me without hesitation, his desire clearly unfinished.

He glanced down at me lying there like a wrung-out rag, his voice apologetic. “Babe, Bernice has a doctorate in management from a top university overseas. Every plan she makes is for my benefit. You love me, so you understand, right?”

I didn't cry. I didn't make a scene. I just nodded.

He smiled and stroked my colorless cheek. “Good girl. Why don't you step out? Bernice and I need to work overtime.”

The door closed. Within seconds, sounds drifted out of the room, rising louder and louder, unmistakable.

I dug my nails into my palms, forcing down the nausea climbing my throat.

Then my phone buzzed with a text. “Ms. Thomas, a donor heart matching your mother has been located. Surgery can proceed at any time. The cost is $500,000. Please arrange payment as soon as possible.”

My hands were shaking as I wiped the tears streaming down my face.

This marriage, rotten all the way to its roots,

could finally end.

——

Two hours later, the master bedroom door opened.

Bernice walked out wearing Sean's dress shirt.

The collar hung wide open, baring skin covered in marks.

She swept a glance over me, her manicured nails tapping rapidly across her phone screen.

Then she shoved a number in my face.

“Mrs. Morton, because you kept Mr. Morton past his scheduled time by two minutes and ten seconds, a penalty applies. Based on Mr. Morton's hourly rate, that's ten thousand dollars per minute. Please transfer $21,600. The rounded-off change can be considered Mr. Morton's Valentine's Day gift to you.”

“Would you like to transfer now, or have it deducted from next month's allowance?”

I stood frozen.

Even after countless encounters with this level of absurdity, my chest still tightened beyond my control.

Three years ago, Bernice had been hired into Sean's company and given total authority over his personal life and finances.

She talked endlessly about gender equality and fairness in marriage.

Then, inside my own home, she put a price tag on every piece of clothing I wore, every piece of jewelry, every meal I ate.

She even scrutinized how long Sean and I spent in bed together and what positions we used.

Last month, she found a single strand of hair on Sean's shirt and docked me three thousand dollars.

Earlier this month, I wore a pair of earrings thirty seconds past the approved time at a banquet, and she docked me five thousand.

Today, because Sean had stayed in my bed two minutes and ten seconds too long, she wanted me to pay over twenty thousand.

I stared at the flush still lingering on her face, at the contempt written all over it.

And felt something break into bitter laughter inside me.

“You're so good with numbers, Secretary Summers. So tell me, how much does it cost when you and my husband spend two hours going at it in my master bedroom?”

Bernice's expression seized up. She turned to Sean, who had just stepped out, and her eyes instantly welled with tears.

“Mr. Morton, I gave up my personal time to work overtime and clean up the mess your wife left behind, and this is how she treats me.”

“I can't do this job anymore. I quit, effective immediately.”

Sean pulled her back into his arms at once. When he looked at me, irritation bled through his gaze. “Irene Thomas, I don't support you so you can drag me down. Bernice is top-tier talent. She's not someone a housewife who depends on me for every meal and every breath can compare to. Get over here and apologize.”

My throat clenched like someone had their hands around it.

Sean had forgotten who stood beside him when he had nothing, who drank until her stomach lining bled to land his first angel investor.

It was after his company went public and the dust settled that he took my hands, his eyes full of tenderness, and promised me,

He couldn't bear to see me suffer, not even a little. He swore he'd shield me from every storm.

But in the end, I gave up everything to stay home and take care of him, and all I became was the dead weight of a housewife dragging him down.

He promised me shelter from the rain. Three years later, every storm I weathered was one he'd brought to my door.

Bernice lifted her chin, her face full of haughty disdain. “Forget it, Mr. Morton. Your wife is too high and mighty to respect someone like me, someone who actually works for a living. My dignity won't survive this kind of treatment. I'll have my resignation on your desk by morning.”

Sean's expression went cold. Whatever patience he had left was gone.

He pulled out his phone, and the moment I saw the number he was dialing, the hospital where my mother was staying,

I lunged for him. “I'll apologize.”

I bit down so hard the inside of my cheek split open. I swallowed the taste of iron. “I'm sorry, Secretary Summers. I was out of line.”

Bernice let out a soft scoff. “I'm not feeling the sincerity, Mrs. Morton.”

I closed my eyes. My knees hit the floor. “You work so hard for this family. I was ungrateful.”

Bernice smiled, satisfied. She glanced out the window at the rain hammering down in sheets, then gave her order as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Mr. Morton didn't get to finish earlier, so we'll need another two hours of overtime. Run to the shop on the East Side and pick up two boxes of the strawberry ultra-thins he likes.”

The East Side was a forty-five-minute drive each way.

Sean helped me to my feet. Something flickered behind his eyes, something that might have been guilt, but all he said was, “Hurry back.”

Outside, the rain came down like a wall. I stood there, hands shaking, staring at the message Sean had sent.

“Keeping employees happy is good for the company. It's for our future, babe. I knew my wife would understand. I'll have ginger tea waiting when you get home.”

Right below it, a $52 Venmo transfer.

“This is from my personal stash. Bernice doesn't know about it. Love you forever.”

I accepted the transfer and stared at my account balance. Four hundred and ninety thousand dollars.

I wiped my face and walked into the rain.

By the time I got home, the house was empty.

I dragged myself inside, water dripping off every inch of me.

On the dining table sat a bowl of ginger tea, long since gone cold.

I had just picked it up when a push notification lit up my phone. Bernice had posted on social media.

A screenshot of a $520,000 bank transfer. A pair of first-class Swiss vacation packages.

“Opportunity never disappoints those who hustle.”

“Work is my passion. So grateful to my boss for the overtime bonus and performance reward.”

The last photo was taken from behind, at the airport.

Two people in matching outfits, fingers laced together.

The wedding ring I had slipped onto Sean's finger myself,

the one that had made him cry so hard he could barely speak, the one he'd kissed over and over like it was sacred, swearing he'd never take it off as long as he lived,

had been replaced by a matching couple's ring with Bernice.

I laughed softly.

Then, face blank, I carried the bowl of ginger tea to the kitchen.

Tilted my hand, and poured every last drop down the drain.

After my shower, there was one more message from Sean on my phone.

“Babe, an urgent project blew up and I have to fly out tonight to handle it. Take care of yourself. When I'm back we'll go visit your mom together. Love you.”

I turned off my phone. No reply.

That night, I drifted in and out of restless sleep, drowning in dreams.

I dreamed of the year I turned twelve, when Sean crawled out of his stepfather's house half-dead, begging for help.

My father went to save him. He was stabbed six times. He died on the spot.

Sean held me while I sat there, hollow and shattered, his tears soaking into the crook of my neck. “Irene, I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

In the early days of his startup, a failed investment left him cornered by creditors with nowhere to turn. My mother postponed her heart surgery and gave him every last dollar of my father's wrongful death settlement.

He was kneeling at my mother's bedside, holding my hand, tears streaming down his face.

“Mom, I'm going to make enough money to fix your heart. And I'll make Irene the happiest bride in the world.”

I opened my eyes, disoriented. More than half my pillow was soaked through.

My chest felt hollowed out. The only thing I could feel was the tears running into the corners of my mouth.

Salt and bitterness.

My phone rang. The hospital.

I fumbled to answer. “Ms. Thomas, your mother's condition has taken a sudden turn. You need to come right away.”

The hospital corridors at that hour were deathly still.

The doctor stopped me outside the operating room. “Her heart is at its limit. If we don't do a transplant soon, she won't last much longer.”

I sagged against the wall, my fingers trembling so badly I could barely hold the phone, and still I dialed Sean's number again. And again. And again.

He didn't pick up until the eighth call.

“Sean, Mom's heart is giving out. I don't need much. Just ten thousand dollars……”

Two seconds of silence on the other end. Then a bright, girlish laugh.

“Mrs. Morton, Mr. Morton is in the shower. He doesn't have time for you.”

I froze for two seconds, then forced words through my raw throat. “Secretary Summers, I'm requesting ten thousand dollars. My mother's heart can't hold out any longer and she needs surgery immediately. I'll sign an IOU with interest. Please, I'm begging you, approve it now.”

“Oh, and why should I care?” Bernice's lazy laugh dripped with venom. “Some half-dead old hag trying to squeeze money out of Mr. Morton. Keeping a useless thing like you is already a loss. Now you want to drag along some old bag who won't die? You and your mother really have no shame at all.”

“If you're really that desperate for cash, why don't you go sell yourself? You're a little old for it, sure, but do it enough times and you'll scrape the money together eventually.”

Before I could say a word, the line went dead.

I slid to the floor. The pain in my chest tore through me, but not a single tear would come.

Close to dawn, my mother was finally wheeled out of surgery.

The doctor spoke in a low voice. “We saved her for now, but she cannot take any more stress. Another episode and no one will be able to help her. You need to move forward with the heart transplant as soon as possible.”

Back in the room, she was already awake.

She reached out with calloused, trembling fingers and touched my face. “Why have you gotten so thin? Where's Sean? He hasn't visited in so long.”

I pressed my cheek into her palm, fighting back tears. “He's arranging the surgery. Mom, they found a donor heart. We'll be able to operate soon.”

She smiled. Every deep wrinkle on her face softened with relief.

“As long as the two of you are doing well, that's all I need. Sean loves the smoked meat I make. I set some aside. Remember to bring it to him.”

I bit down hard on my lip. “Okay.”

Outside the room, I found the doctor. “Schedule me for a kidney donation.”

Three days later, I got out of bed and went home to get a change of clothes.

The second I pushed the door open, a brutal force slammed me into the wall.

I couldn't keep my footing. The impact sent a sharp, searing pain ripping through the incision on my abdomen.

Sean's voice came down on me like cracking ice.

“Bernice told me everything. You used your mother's so-called emergency to demand a million dollars for surgery. She turned you down, and you cursed her out, told her to go die, told her to sell herself.”

“So tell me. Without that million dollars, is your mother dead?”

Very slowly, I turned my head. I stared at him, unable to comprehend what I was hearing.

Stared at a man so blinded by a woman who lied with every breath that he looked ready to tear me apart like an animal.

My mother could barely speak through her illness, and still she was thinking about his favorite food.

And here he was, wishing her dead.

The pain was a poisoned blade, flaying every nerve I had left, inch by inch.

Beside him, Bernice let out a long, theatrical sigh and put on her most magnanimous voice. “Mr. Morton, let it go. She only cursed me out a little. I'm fine, really. But your wife demanding a million dollars just like that, when you work so hard for every penny? She just bleeds you dry. Honestly, it breaks my heart for you.”