The Wife He Called Cheap Walked Away Forever

When I was eighteen, I gave myself to Dominic Moretti like a gift, wrapped in blind devotion and ribboned in a loyalty I thought would buy me a place at his table forever.

That night, tipsy and remote, he slid my clothes off without hesitation, the way a man handles something already promised to him. There was no tenderness in it, only certainty. The certainty of a man who had never once been told no.

The next morning, he looked utterly composed, knotting his tie before the tall windows of the estate while the early light came gray and cold off the marble floor.