The Wife Who Destroyed Me

On my wedding day, I was scrambling to cover my mom's surgery.

At the last minute, I asked to raise the dowry from $88,000 to $280,000.

Lily Simmons agreed without a word. Changed the amount herself, calm as ever.

But as we climbed into the wedding car, two words drifted to my ears, light as air:

"Gold digger."

From that day on, she paraded her affairs in public. Let strangers call me the husband with a price tag. Even on our third anniversary—while I sat in a hospital waiting room, stomach cramping, too broke to pay my own bill—she was in Harbor City, lighting up the sky with a fireworks show for her latest lover.

I stared at the payment slip. $152.

I called her. "Lily, let's get a divorce."

"Here we go again." A bored sigh. "How much do you want this time?

——

Fifty thousand? A hundred? A hundred fifty?"

Before I could answer, a man's laugh cut through—bright, teasing.

"Lily, you dropped five hundred grand on some random street beggar yesterday. Why so stingy with your own husband?"

"Because..." She paused. When she spoke again, contempt dripped from every syllable. "Some people are only worth that much."

Her words sliced through me like a poisoned blade.

Ever since I'd changed the dowry, that warmth in her eyes—the way she used to look at me—had vanished completely. I knew I'd hurt her. I tried everything to make it right.

I cooked for her myself.

She laughed in my face. "How much for this meal? Put a price on it first—let me see if I can afford your cooking."

Even in bed, she'd say it.

"What's tonight's rate? Name your number."

I explained it to her. Again and again.

That day—our wedding day—my mom collapsed. Cerebral hemorrhage. Emergency surgery. If the money didn't come through, she wouldn't survive. That's why I asked for more. That's the only reason.

She never believed me.

"Using your own mother's life to squeeze out more cash." She looked down at me like I was dirt beneath her designer heels. "Matthew Gilbert, I never realized how twisted you really are."

Now, listening to fireworks explode through the phone, I kept my voice flat. "I don't want your money. I just want the divorce. When are you coming back? We'll file at City Hall."

Still, she didn't believe me.

"You? Walk away from the Simmons fortune?" Ice dripped from her laugh. "Fine. Return every cent of that dowry first. Then we'll see how serious you really are."

She hung up.

Her words echoed in my skull.

Everyone said marrying Lily Simmons was like winning the lottery. Son-in-law to a wealthy dynasty. A life of luxury handed to me on a silver platter.

Nobody knew the truth.

In three years of marriage, Lily hadn't given me a single dollar.

My old company let me go the moment they learned who I'd married—too scared of the Simmons name to keep me around. Every interview after that ended the same way. Polite rejections. Apologetic smiles. Doors closing in my face.

Every dollar I'd spent came from savings I'd scraped together before the wedding. And that money was long gone—burned through on Mom's medical bills and basic survival.

I had less than a hundred bucks to my name.

Where was I supposed to find $280,000?

I stood frozen, the payment slip crumpling in my ice-cold grip. Beside me, some girl watching the fireworks livestream let out an envious sigh.