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.

“Let go,” I repeated.

Before he could answer, a soft voice floated over us like perfume.

“Sunny,” Genevieve said, stepping a little closer. “If I were you, I’d be grateful.”

I turned my head slowly toward her.

“A wife’s title is what most women dream of,” she continued, her eyes shining with fake concern. “If you think Steven isn’t giving you enough money, I can make him increase it for you. Five hundred, maybe eight thousand more a month? That should cover your expenses, right? Just… don’t be extravagant.”

Her tone was mild, almost kind, as if she were offering me a coupon.

I thought of the toilet paper I only bought in bulk when it was on sale. The way I’d scraped leftover sauce from pans into containers to stretch one meal into three. The times I’d put back meat at the store because the price made my stomach clench. The way I’d learned to cut my own hair in the mirror to avoid paying a salon.

The humiliation washed over me in a hot wave.

Steven’s fingers dug tighter into my wrist. My other hand curled slowly into a fist.

I didn’t plan it. I didn’t rehearse. There was no pause where I weighed the consequences.

I simply moved.