Chapter 3

I found them in a private lounge on the top floor of the conference center. The party was winding down, but they were still celebrating, sitting on a plush velvet couch with Mr. Henderson.

Mr. Henderson. The "demanding boss." He was pouring champagne for David and Emily, his posture deferential, servile. The roles were reversed. It was so painfully obvious now.

Emily was the first to see me. I was standing in the doorway, my cheap coat a stark contrast to the opulence of the room. A smirk played on her lips.

"David, look," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "Your little shadow found you."

David turned. For a split second, I saw the confident tech mogul from the stage. Then, like an actor changing masks, his face crumpled. His shoulders slumped. His eyes widened with a familiar, feigned panic. He transformed back into the pathetic, struggling husband I had known for ten years.

"Sarah? What are you doing here?" he stammered, rushing over to me. He grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong, and tried to pull me out of the doorway. "You shouldn't be here. This is a work event."

"Your work?" I asked, my voice flat and dead.

Mr. Henderson stood up and walked over, his face a mask of contempt. He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on my worn-out shoes.

"Chen, is this your wife?" he sneered. "I thought you said she was a respectable artist, not some beggar you picked up off the street."

The insult barely registered. I was too numb.

"Mr. Henderson, sir, I'm so sorry," David babbled, playing his part to perfection. "She doesn't understand. She worries about me."

"Worries?" Henderson laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "She should be worried about the money you owe me! You told me you'd have the fifty thousand by last week. Where is it?"

Fifty thousand. The lie was so intricate, so detailed. They had a whole script.

"I... I'm working on it, sir," David said, bowing his head. He turned to me, his eyes pleading. "Sarah, honey, it's okay. I'll handle this."

"Handle it with what?" Henderson barked. "Your wife's dishwashing money?"

David flinched, then looked at me. The look in his eyes was the one I knew best. The one that had always worked. It was a look of shame, of desperation, of a man on his last rope, needing me, his rock, to save him.

"Sarah," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I'm so sorry you have to see this. I tried to keep it from you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of cash. Maybe a hundred dollars. "This is all I have."

He then looked at my purse. The purse where I kept the emergency cash I had just earned from a grueling double shift at the diner. It was three hundred dollars. Money for our rent.

"Honey," he said, his voice a soft, manipulative caress. "I know you just got paid. Could you... could we just give him what we have for now? To show good faith?"

The audacity of it was breathtaking. Even now, with his billions exposed, standing in a room that cost more than I'd make in a decade, he was still trying to bleed me dry.

I just stared at him. The mask was perfect, but I could see the cold, calculating man underneath.

"Give me the money, Chen, or the interest doubles tomorrow," Henderson threatened.

Emily, still lounging on the couch, sighed dramatically. "This is so tiresome. David, just handle your mess."

David looked from Henderson's angry face to my empty one. He was getting desperate. The performance was starting to crack.

"Please, Sarah," he begged, his voice rising.

"Kneel," Mr. Henderson said suddenly, a cruel smile on his face.

David and I both froze.

"What?" David asked.

"I said, kneel," Henderson repeated, pointing at me. "If she gets on her knees and kowtows to me, three times, I'll waive this month's interest. A little humility goes a long way."

It was a test. A power play. A final, disgusting act in their long-running drama, and they were all looking at me, waiting.

David turned to me, his face a mess of fake anguish. "Sarah, please," he whispered, his grip tightening on my arm. "Just do it. It's just for a moment. It means nothing. We can get through this, just do what he says."

He wasn' t protecting me. He was directing me. He was pushing me to my knees to maintain his lie, to feed their sick game.

The room was silent. Emily watched with detached curiosity, like a scientist observing a rat in a cage. Mr. Henderson stared, his arms crossed, enjoying the show. And David, my husband, looked at me with the eyes of a beggar, silently urging me to sacrifice the last shred of my dignity for a debt that didn't even exist.

My knees trembled. A cold, hard knot formed in my stomach. I looked at David' s face, at the man I had loved and sacrificed everything for, and for the first time, I felt nothing but pure, unadulterated disgust.

Slowly, deliberately, I sank to the floor. The plush carpet felt like gravel under my knees. I lowered my head, the blood pounding in my ears.

One.

My forehead touched the ground.

Two.

The fabric of the carpet scratched my skin.

Three.

I closed my eyes, and in the darkness, the last flicker of love I had for him died.

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