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.

“All right,” I said, wiping my face with the back of my hand. My voice sounded clearer than I felt. “Steven, let’s get a divorce.”

His eyes widened. “Sunny—”

“That’s eight words,” I went on, calm now. “One million dollars a word. Eight million. Buy out our marriage so you can be with her. It’s cheap, really. A bargain.”

He sputtered. “Sunny, calm down. Let’s talk about this at home—”

“You mean the old apartment with the peeling wallpaper?” I cut in. “The one that costs seven hundred a month and always smells like mold in the hallway?”

Red crept into his face.

“Don’t make a scene here,” he hissed, glancing around at the watching eyes.

“Scene?” I repeated. “You mean the scene where your ‘simple’ wife finds out you’re a rich CEO who’s been pretending to be poor while spending my dowry on another woman?”

He reached for my arm. “Let’s talk privately.”

“Let go,” I said through clenched teeth.

He didn’t. His fingers tightened instead.

“Not until you promise you’ll come home with me and we’ll talk about this like adults,” he said.

His hand on my wrist felt suddenly unfamiliar—too tight, too possessive, as if he believed he could still control the narrative just by raising his voice.