Chapter 3 Payment


    Before we said our vows, we''d struck a deal: Jude wanted a wife on his arm, I wanted his bank ount.


    Every month, without fail, he''d wire me 60 grand. If I was short, all I had to do was open my mouth.


    He threw it in my face once, voice dripping with venom, that he knew I was only in it for the cash. Why else would I have ghosted him for that loaded jackass who ditched me for Kasend for two years?


    He never figured out who this "rich boy" everyone gossiped about was, but he''d bet his life I was just a money-grubbing leech.


    Once we were married, I barely touched his money. But even with 60 grand hitting my ount every month, I was always one step from broke.


    Staying ahead of the cancer meant popping pills that cost a fortune, and the endless scans and check-ups bled me dry just as fast.


    Today was only the second time I''d ever gone to him, swallowing my pride to ask for help. The first was when my mom passed.


    Back then, he didn''t hesitate-just handed over 300 thousand dors, clean and simple, no strings.


    This time, though? He didn''t even look up, too busy stroking Vivian''s hair, cooing at her like I was a ghost in the room.


    Only when Vivian quit her fake-ass sobbing did he bother to nce my way, his lips twisting into a cruel smirk. "You want money? Sure thing. Just beg for forgiveness."


    "You screwed up," he spat. "You hurt her. Say sorry to Vivian, or you get nothing."


    Vivian''s eyes popped wide, all mock surprise, but that smug grin spread like wildfire.


    She clung to Jude''s sleeve, pouting just enough to y the part. "Jude, baby, let it go. I''m not that messed up. Maybe she didn''t mean to be such a cunt."


    "Doesn''t matter what she meant," he growled, voice sharp as a de. "She''s apologizing. You''re the one I care about, Vivian. Not her."


    He scooped Vivian up and eased her onto the couch with a tenderness I''d never known.


    He then yanked out his checkbook with a smirk, scribbling a number with this cocky flourish that practically screamed, Go fuck yourself. Then he dangled the check in front of me like it was a goddamn carrot.


    "Come on, just beg. Say you''re sorry, and this 1.5 mil''s all yours," he taunted, voice dripping with smug bastard energy.


    I stared at the check, and for a fleeting moment, the fire in my chest dulled to a simmer.


    He''d dragged women through our house before-countless faces, all meant to cut me down.


    But that was always behind closed doors, our dirty little secret. Out in public, no matter how much he fucked around, I was still Mrs. Carson-his untouchable wife.


    This time, though, he was doing it for her. Throwing his money in my face to make me crawl for Vivian''s smug satisfaction.


    He knew I wouldn''te begging unless I was out of options. That was the whole point, wasn''t it?


    He wanted my self-respect ground into the dirt, wanted me to feel like trash. Only then would he sleep easy.


    I stood there, glued to the spot, while the room pulsed with stares-coworkers gawking, judging, or tossing me scraps of pity I didn''t want.


    Vivian''s eyes locked on mine, gleaming with vicious glee, daring me to break.


    Her earlier jab echoed in my skull. "The one he doesn''t give a shit about? That''s the real mistress."


    I jammed my hand against my chest, pressing hard, as if I could squash the ache before it swallowed me whole. Cancer was a mean bastard, but this hurt cut deeper, sharper.


    "Shove your money up your ass," I said, voice cold and steady.


    I spun on my heel and marched out of that office, head held high, done with his sick little power trip.


    He hated me-fine. Let him try to rip me to shreds. Crushing my pride wasn''t enough for him; he''d need to draw more blood to feel like a man.


    But if he ever found out I needed that cash to keep my heart beating and he''d waved it in my face just to yank it away? Hell, he''d probably throw a goddamn party and toast to my misery.


    I staggered through my front door, every inch of me screaming for copse, wrung out like a dishrag.


    Bone-deep exhaustion weighed me down, my eyes burning for sleep, but the pain -fuck, that relentless pain-wed at any chance of rest.


    Cancer''s grip was a knife in my marrow, and this wasn''t my first dance with it.


    Mom''sst days flooded back-her gaunt face, her brittle frame wasting away. The image sank its teeth into me, but I clenched my jaw, hauled myself up, and choked down two mtonin pills, praying they''d dull the edge.


    My phone buzzed, slicing through the fog. A message from the doctor. [Ms. Watson, surgery''s set for Monday. Can you swing by soon to handle the payment?]


    I stared at the words, rereading them until they swam together. No bank alert. No deposit. Nothing.


    I squeezed my eyes shut, the truthnding like a punch-Jude wasn''t forking over a dime. Not now, not ever.


    A few minutester, another ping from the doctor. [Even a deposit works to lock it


    in.]


    My thumb lingered over the keyboard, itching to type something, anything. But what? [Hey, I am t broke]?


    I let it go, the screen fading to ck. No money, no surgery. End of story.


    I crumpled onto the bed, desperate to switch off my brain.


    Tomorrow''s n was already taking shape-I''d smash the ss on my wardrobe and pawn those stupid designer bags gathering dust. Whatever got me through.


    But for now, I needed sleep. Without it, I''d be too wrecked to survive the scalpel. Half-conscious, I sank into a dream that stretched on like a lifetime.


    Back when my family was still somebody, when I was the Watson princess strutting through life, and Jude was just a scrappy orphan with nothing to his


    name.


    Dad was picking kids to fund for school, and I locked eyes on Jude instantly.


    He''d already bagged a schrship, so he didn''t even need the help, but I whined and needled until Dad tossed him the spot.


    I chased him, too. God, did I chase him. He was a brick wall-aloof, distant, shutting me down left and right.


    Until that night at the grimy bar where he slung drinks.


    Some greasy punks got handsy, and he stepped in, voice steady as steel."Ada, stay cool. I''ve got this."


    He got pounded that night-face mashed up like raw meat-but he nted himself between me and them, like nothing else mattered.


    In the hospital, Itched onto him, arms locked around his neck, clinging like a damn ko, terrified he''d vanish if I blinked.


    I cried out,"Jude, you scared the living shit outta me! You''re mine now, got it?"


    He shed a busted, lopsided grin, words slurring through swollen lips. "Yeah, fine."


    And just like that, we were us.


    Campus buzzed with hot takes-everyone betting we''d me out. But we didn''t. We held on, stubborn as hell, for three whole years.


    Right before graduation, he sold this app he''d ved over, his pride and joy, just


    to buy me a birthday gift that''d mean something.


    When I opened the box and saw that diamond ne glinting up at me, I fucking lost it, tears streaming.


    I hammered his chest, voice cracking. "Why''d you do it, Jude? That was six months of your goddamn life!"


    He just smiled, all soft and dumb, and said, "Ada, you''re worth every thing."


    Ping.


    My phone''s chime jolted me awake, heart hammering.


    A bank alert lit up the screen-30,000 dors, sitting pretty in my ount. Relief


    crashed over me, so sharp it stung.


    I scrubbed the tears off my cheeks, hands shaky, and tapped out a reply to the doctor. [Coming by tomorrow toplete admission procedures.]


    The money was real. I''d made it.