Chapter 2

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.