The first time Emily Brooks understood that her husband had truly sold her, Ethan was counting the money while she sat beside him in the back seat of a black sedan, trying not to cry.
The first time Emily Brooks understood that her husband had truly sold her, Ethan was counting the money while she sat beside him in the back seat of a black sedan, trying not to cry.
Two million dollars.
That was apparently the price of three years of marriage, thousands of dinners she had cooked, every excuse she had made for him, every night she had waited for him to come home from casinos smelling of whiskey and somebody else’s perfume, and every promise she had believed long after common sense told her to stop.
Ethan glanced at the confirmation on his phone and smiled.
“Be a good girl with your new husband, Emily. You should be grateful. Two million dollars is a lot of money.”
His mother, Jocelyn Cole, sat in the front passenger seat and laughed softly.
“Especially for somebody who never brought anything useful into this family.”
Emily looked out the window.
Rain slid across the glass, smearing the lights of Westchester County into watery ribbons.
Only one thought kept her from opening the door at the next stoplight and running.
Her mother.
Linda Brooks was lying in a hospital bed with an aggressive cancer that had already drained Emily’s savings. The next stage of treatment required money Emily did not have.
Ethan had promised that if Emily agreed to the grotesque arrangement, he would use part of the two million dollars to pay every medical bill.
That promise was the only reason she was still sitting in the car.
“Say it again,” Emily whispered.
Ethan looked up. “Say what?”
“My mother’s bills.”
He sighed. “Emily—”
“Say it again.”
Jocelyn twisted around. “For heaven’s sake, must everything be dramatic with you?”
Emily ignored her.
“Ethan, you told me that if I signed the divorce papers and went through with this, Mom’s treatment would be paid for. Every dollar. Say it.”
Ethan smiled with the weary contempt he had perfected during their marriage.
“Yes. Your mother gets her treatment.”
“Every bill?”
“Every bill.”
Emily finally looked at him.
“You’ve let me down every day for three years. Don’t let me down on this.”
His smile disappeared.
Jocelyn scoffed. “All this money wasted on a woman with cancer. Sometimes you have to accept reality. Your mother may die anyway.”
Emily’s face turned toward her so quickly that Jocelyn flinched.
“You can hate me,” Emily said quietly. “You’ve been doing that since the day Ethan married me. But don’t talk about my mother’s life as if it’s garbage.”
“Enough,” Ethan snapped. Then he looked at his phone again. “We wouldn’t have two million dollars without Emily, Mom, so be nice to the merchandise until delivery.”
Silence filled the car.
Emily stared at him.
“The merchandise thanks you.”
Something in Jocelyn’s expression shifted, but she looked away.
Ethan didn’t.
He laughed.
And that was when Emily realized there was no part of her marriage left to mourn.
She had already lost it years ago.
Today was only the funeral.
Three years earlier, Ethan Cole had been charming, ambitious and newly hired by an engineering firm in Manhattan. He sent Emily flowers to the elementary school where she worked as an administrative assistant. He called Linda “Mom” before the wedding and promised Emily a house with a porch, two children and a kitchen large enough for Sunday dinners.
Within six months of marriage, the flowers stopped.
Within a year, the gambling started.
By the second year, Ethan had emptied their savings twice.
By the third, he was staying out overnight, borrowing money from strangers and blaming Emily whenever anything went wrong.
She had remained because her mother had raised her to believe marriage was something decent people fought to save.
Then Linda became sick.
And Ethan discovered there was one final thing left in the marriage he could gamble with.
His wife.
The idea had supposedly begun as a drunken joke at a private card room.
Ethan had complained about his debts and said, “I’d sell my wife for two million dollars if anybody was stupid enough to pay.”
An elderly man at another table had calmly replied, “Done.”
Emily had believed Ethan was lying when he told her.
Then an attorney arrived the next morning with divorce documents, waivers, a settlement agreement and an offer from Harold Donovan, the seventy-eight-year-old founder of Donovan Holdings, one of the country’s largest privately held hotel and commercial real estate companies.
The documents did not say Emily was property. No American court would have recognized such a thing.
Legally, Ethan was receiving money to finalize an uncontested divorce, waive financial claims and permanently remove himself from Emily’s affairs.
But Ethan had made his meaning very clear.
He called it selling her.
And Emily, terrified that her mother would lose treatment, had agreed to leave.
Now the sedan slowed before towering iron gates.
Beyond them stood a stone mansion surrounded by wet lawns, old trees and warm lights glowing behind enormous windows.
Jocelyn stared.
“Oh, Ethan.”
He grinned.
“Imagine what the old guy is worth.”
Emily felt sick.
Ethan handed her a garment bag.
“Change before we go inside.”
She opened it and stared at an expensive cream dress.
“You bought this?”
“Borrowed it.”
“From whom?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Emily closed the bag.
“I’ll wear what I have on.”
“You look like you’re going to work.”
“I am being delivered like a package. Forgive me for not dressing for the occasion.”
His fingers tightened around her wrist.
“Do you want your mother’s treatment or not?”
Emily looked down at his hand.
“Let go.”
For a second, the old Ethan—the man who had once carried groceries for Linda and kissed Emily in the rain—seemed to flicker behind his eyes.
Then he released her.
Twenty minutes later, Emily entered the Donovan mansion wearing the dress.
She hated herself for changing.
She hated Ethan more for knowing exactly which threat would make her do it.
An older housekeeper named Melinda escorted them into a library where Harold Donovan waited beside a fireplace.
Emily had expected someone frail.
Harold was elderly, but nothing about him appeared weak. Silver hair framed a deeply lined face, and his dark suit was immaculate. He leaned on a cane more from age than necessity, and his sharp blue eyes studied Ethan with an expression that made Emily wonder whether her husband had misunderstood who held power in this room.
Harold looked at Emily.
“So this is the woman.”
Ethan stepped forward eagerly.
“Yes, Mr. Donovan. Emily Cole. Well, Brooks now, according to those papers.”
Harold’s eyes moved to Ethan’s hand.
“Did you sign everything?”
Ethan produced the documents.
“All of it.”
“No financial claims?”
“None.”
“No right to her future earnings, property or inheritance?”
“Nothing.”
“No right to interfere in her medical decisions, residence or future marriage?”
Ethan laughed.
“For two million dollars, sir, she can marry the governor of Mars.”
Harold did not laugh.
“And you understand that the agreement prohibits you from contacting her for financial gain?”
Ethan hesitated.
“Sure.”
Harold took the documents.
“Good.”
Ethan rubbed his hands together.
“So we’re finished?”
“We are.”
“Then the transfer?”
(I know you’re all very curious about the next part, so if you want to read more, please leave a comment below with a word starting with the letter “S”!)
