The day I took Victoria Sullivan’s money—a cold, sickening million dollars—to save my dying father, I knew I had signed away my entire future. When I told Rhys Sullivan I was leaving him, I didn’t just shatter our decade-long love story; I shattered him. He didn't argue. He didn't yell. He just found the silver letter opener on his mahogany desk and, in one swift, brutal movement, drew it across his wrist. The sight of his blood, bright against the pale skin of his hand, stunned the air from my lungs. He looked at me, his face bleached white from shock and blood loss, but his eyes were filled with a terrifying, absolute devotion. “Jas,” he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. “Jasmine Moore, you are it for me. If I can’t marry you, I don’t want to be here.” He used his own life as a weapon, and his mother, Victoria, finally had to back down. But the moment he had me, he began his long, calculated revenge. On our wedding day, standing before a hundred shocked faces, he replaced the five-carat cushion-cut diamond with a cheap, plastic toy ring. “You’re a transaction, Jasmine,” he sneered, loud enough for the front rows to hear. “A deal made in an office. This ring—this piece of plastic—is the only fidelity you’ve ever earned.” After the ceremony, his life became an endless parade of beautiful women. He’d spend fortunes on them—designer bags, watches, sports cars. On me, his legal wife, the request to buy groceries required a formal, written application and an endless wait for approval. Years later, when my father’s condition worsened and I needed fifty thousand for emergency surgery, I begged Rhys for the money. I got on my knees and debased myself, sacrificing every shred of dignity left to me. For my father’s life, I was only rewarded with five hundred dollars and a cold, chilling laugh. “A good little lapdog only gets kibble,” he said. I picked up the crumpled bills, my vision blurring with tears, and rushed to the hospital. By the time I arrived, my father was gone. While I was collapsed in anguish at his bedside, Rhys was out buying out an entire luxury boutique for his latest flavor-of-the-month. Five days later, I was dead inside. I went to his office, the signed divorce papers clutched in my hand. He laughed then, too. “Seriously? All this drama over fifty thousand dollars?” ... I arrived at Rhys’s office suite, the divorce agreement feeling heavy and final in my hand, and was stopped by his assistant, just like always. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sullivan, but Mr. Sullivan requires all meetings to be scheduled. You must have an appointment to enter the CEO’s office.” I stared at the heavy mahogany door, a bitter smile twisting my lips. Seven years of marriage. Seven years of being barred from his office, always forced to wait for permission, for a notice, for the honor of his time. I stopped counting the hours I’d spent waiting years ago. Five days ago, when I received the emergency call about my father, I had tried to storm in. The assistant and two bodyguards wrestled me to the ground. I fought like an animal, clawing at the door, the skin on my fingertips tearing and bleeding, but I wouldn't let go. Rhys finally opened the door, a scowl of annoyance on his face, after his assistant called him. He looked down at me, a dishevelled, desperate wreck on his pristine carpet, and gave a cruel, cold laugh. “Here for another handout, Jasmine? You never cease to amaze me with how low you’ll sink for cash.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to an arctic whisper. “How much this time? Five thousand? Fifty thousand? A hundred?” “The money comes with a price,” he continued, slow and deliberate. “I need a... a lapdog today. Kneel right there. Bark for me. I’ll give you a hundred dollars for every sound you make.” The raw, stark humiliation of the command caused my whole body to shake. But the image of my father, pale and barely breathing in a hospital bed, was enough. I slowly bent my knees. Under the cynical, mocking gazes of the staff, I sank to the floor and whispered the one-syllable sound. “Woof.” Rhys threw his head back and roared with laughter. He gleefully called his latest paramour, Savannah Locke, over and led her, his arm around her waist, into his office. I couldn’t remember how many times I had to bark that day. I couldn’t remember how many sickening sweet words I heard him utter to Savannah from behind that closed door. The next morning, he opened the door, gifting Savannah his ten-thousand-dollar custom watch. He didn’t even look at me when he dropped five hundred-dollar bills onto the floor. “A good little dog only gets kibble,” he mocked, then swept Savannah away, not sparing a glance for me, even as my tears streamed down my face and I begged him to save my father. I gathered the five hundred dollars and rushed to the hospital, but it was too late. Dad was gone. His eyes had been open when the nurses found him, still calling my name. I held his cold body and cried until the darkness took me. When I woke up, the nurses were gossiping about Rhys Sullivan clearing out a major luxury store for his girlfriend. They murmured about the ten thousand dollars he’d given the sales clerk as a tip. They didn’t know that his legitimate wife had been pushed to the edge of the abyss, unable to find fifty thousand dollars to see her father one last time. My heart was a lump of cold ash. I called him, requesting the divorce, and was met with a dismissive grunt. “What, you’re throwing a fit now? Didn’t get the cash so you’re trying to use manipulative tactics? Threatening me with divorce?” “Jasmine, you’re pathetic! You couldn’t even be a good dog! Even dogs are more obedient than you are!” “What right do you have to demand a divorce? Your father’s medical bills, that apartment you live in—it all comes from me!” “You spend my money, so you follow my rules. I tell you to take it, you take it!” Before he could finish, I heard a rustling sound—Savannah, no doubt—and he abruptly hung up. I hadn’t even had the chance to tell him Dad was dead. My heart shriveled. For seven years, I’d retreated, swallowed his insults, and endured his cruel demands. Standing before that heavy, always-closed door, I finally snapped. I grabbed a glass vase from the side table and hurled it against the wall. The sound of shattering glass was deafening. I grabbed a jagged shard, held it to my throat, and screamed. “I need to see Rhys Sullivan now! If you don’t let me in, I swear I’ll bleed out right here, right now!” The assistant finally gave way, frantically punching the code. The door opened, revealing a scene that stabbed me like a thousand knives. Rhys and Savannah were tangled together on the sofa. Savannah shrieked in shock when she saw me. Rhys’s face went thunderous. He snatched a heavy crystal ashtray from the coffee table and launched it at me. “Get out! Who the hell let you in?! Are you trying to get yourself killed?!” The ashtray struck my forehead hard. My temple split open and warm blood immediately poured down my face, but the agonizing tear in my heart overshadowed the pain of the wound. A hysterical, furious laugh escaped me. I fixed a cold stare on the two of them, barely dressed and utterly shameless. “I don’t care what games you’re playing. Rhys, I’m here for one reason only. Divorce.” Rhys snatched the papers from my hand and ripped them into snowdrifts without a single glance. “Don’t use divorce to manipulate me, Jasmine! That trick doesn’t work on me anymore!” Savannah was stroking his chest, a sickeningly sweet smile on her face. “Mrs. Sullivan will do anything for attention, won’t she, honey?” She leaned in, whispering in his ear. “Rhys, don’t let her ruin our mood. Just throw her some cash and send her away. A hundred thousand isn’t worth your time.” Rhys gave a smug chuckle, then turned his icy gaze back to me. He opened a drawer, pulled out a stack of hundred-dollar bills, and slammed them onto my face. “Seriously? All this drama over fifty thousand dollars? You’re always making a scene for money, and it disgusts me!” “Take the money and get lost! I don’t want to look at you!” The bills scattered across the carpet. I ignored them, my eyes locked on his. “I told you. One purpose. Rhys, divorce.” His patience snapped. “Divorce? You’re nothing but a dog I bought for money! You don’t get to make demands!” He walked up to me, pretending to gently wipe the blood from my face, then suddenly clamped his hand around my throat. “You think I don’t know your little games? The push-and-pull?” “I’m telling you now, Jasmine. You will never leave me. Not unless you’re dead!” Just as I felt myself choking, he abruptly released me and crushed his lips to mine. The ultimate violation. I struggled wildly, desperate to push him away. “Get off me! Don’t touch me!” He grinned, a terrifying, savage look. “Stop pretending. You’re my dog, so play the part.” “Serve me well, and I’ll reward you with scraps.” Pure, blinding rage surged through me. I didn't care about the consequences; I sank my teeth into his cheek, hard, until I tasted blood. He cried out and shoved me away. I hit the ground hard. Staring at the blood streaming down half of his face, I had a sudden, terrible flash of memory from when I was seventeen. I had been jumped by a group of thugs, and Rhys had rushed in, fighting them off. He’d smiled at me then, too, with his own face covered in blood. How did we get here? It didn't matter. The misunderstandings, the pain, the betrayals—they could all be buried with my father. I was finally free of obligation. I could leave this prison. A sharp, dizzying pain brought me back. Rhys was dragging me up by my hair and slamming my head against the wall. His face was a mask of pure, distorted fury. “Ungrateful bitch! Get out!” With my temple still bleeding and my clothes ripped, he physically kicked me out of the office. This time, my frantic pounding and hysterical sobs at the door only earned me a final, frustrated roar from inside. “Jasmine, for the love of God, go away! Stop bothering me!” Employees hurried past in the corridor, their eyes filled with thinly veiled scorn. The feeling of being exposed was unbearable. I had to leave. I stumbled out onto the street, humiliated and disoriented, enduring the stares of passersby. The early winter chill was a physical assault, but my heart was colder. I was shaken from my daze when a group of men blocked my path. They were rough-looking, reeking of alcohol. I hugged my torn clothes tighter, but it didn't deter their leering eyes. They closed in, forcing me into a deserted alleyway. I had nowhere to run. Their hands were immediately all over me, their actions growing bolder and more aggressive. I was sickened and in pain, but the harder I fought, the more they seemed emboldened. In that moment of absolute despair, I remembered our first encounter again. Seventeen. Working multiple jobs to support my ailing father. Cornered on the way home late at night. Rhys, my white knight, bloody but smiling, dispatching my attackers. He’d promised me, so earnestly and nervously, on the day he proposed, that I would never suffer another moment of pain or shame. Yet, for seven years, every humiliation I’d endured had been because of him. I gave a bitter, exhausted smile and lost the will to struggle. Suddenly, a piercing screech of tires echoed from the alley entrance. Rhys. He charged in like a man possessed, kicking the man on top of me clear across the alley. “Don’t you dare touch her! Are you trying to die?!” He ripped off his expensive jacket and threw it over me, shrouding me completely. I must have been delirious, because for a fleeting second, I saw tenderness and fierce protection in his eyes. The warmth was a mirage. The next second, his expression was back to his usual look of repulsion and disgust. “Jasmine, your sickness is beyond my comprehension!” “You set this up for attention? You think this cheap stunt will make me notice you? You have no shame!” His anger flared, and he planted the heel of his designer shoe on my chest, pressing down hard. “Then again. The woman who sells ten years of love for a million dollars has no shame to lose.” I bit down on my tongue, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a defense. Years ago, Rhys’s mother, Victoria, had approached me repeatedly, offering increasingly obscene amounts of money to leave her son. I refused every time. I don't want your money, Mrs. Sullivan. I just want to be with him. But then, Rhys was away on a business trip, and the hospital called. Heart attack. My father needed a million-dollar bypass surgery, immediately. The mountain of debt was insurmountable. I called and messaged Rhys, but my calls went unanswered, my messages unread. Desperate, I went to Victoria. She didn’t even offer a chair. She simply slid the breakup agreement and a cashier’s check for a million dollars across the table. I had no choice. I signed. I rushed to the hospital with the money, only to be told the diagnosis was a mistake. My father was stable. The doctor, avoiding my eyes, sighed. “Ms. Moore, Mrs. Sullivan asked me to tell you this. Today was a mistake. Next time, it won’t be. Please keep your agreement and remain silent.” The words stole all the strength from my legs. My father’s life was now a direct variable of my cooperation. I had to break up with Rhys. He wouldn’t accept it. He cut his wrist in front of me. I thought it was love then. It wasn't until the public humiliation at the altar that I realized it was hatred. The marriage was a meticulously planned act of revenge. He was determined to break my spirit, step by step, piece by piece. My father’s life was the chain that bound me to his cruelty. But Dad was gone now. The chain was broken. I was finally free. I struggled to my feet, throwing his jacket off. I didn’t look at him, simply walked toward the exit. He grabbed me from behind, his arms locking around my waist, his voice thick with fury. “Where do you think you’re going? Look at the state of you! Stop your pathetic games and come home!” I let out a bitter, cold laugh—and then coughed violently, bringing up a mouthful of blood. The darkness returned. When I woke up again, I was in a hospital bed. Gauze covered every part of me. I tried to sit up, but Rhys was there, his eyes red and swollen, gently pushing me back down. He looked at me with an odd, almost childlike vulnerability. “Jas,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?” I froze, instinctively looking down at my flat abdomen. We had talked about wanting a family, years ago, when we were in love. But the years of torture had killed that wish. Now, just as I was finally leaving, a new life had arrived. Rhys’s tears streamed down his face. He gripped my hand. “Since we have a child, let’s forget all the ugliness. I forgive you.” The word meant nothing to me. I had waited so long for his forgiveness, but it was too late. I remembered the first time I found out he was with another woman. I had sobbed, clinging to him. Rhys, please believe me, I had no choice! Forgive me! Let’s stop this cycle of torture and just be a family! I had been crawling in the dust for him, but he’d shoved me away with a cold, cutting laugh. What kind of ‘choice’ makes you sell me out for a million dollars? How am I supposed to forgive you? I can’t force myself to believe you! I had no evidence. The initial misdiagnosis papers were gone. And my father’s life was still held hostage by his mother’s word. All my sacrifice hadn't even bought my father a long life. My heart was a twisted knot of pain. I wanted to tell him the truth now, to finally unload the burden. But Rhys continued, blissfully unaware. “Jasmine, just focus on the baby now. Don’t worry about your father; I’ll cover all the medical expenses.” His absurdity made me laugh out loud. The doctor, who had just entered for rounds, looked confused. “Mr. Sullivan, you haven’t heard? Ms. Moore’s father passed away five days ago.” Rhys’s eyes widened, the shock of the lightning strike evident on his face. I stopped laughing. My voice was unnaturally calm. “I’ll say it one more time. I have only one purpose. Divorce.” Rhys’s face turned frantic. He shook his head violently. “No, nothing but death will separate us now! Jas, please, just rest. We’ll talk about this in a few days.” I watched his desperate escape, my gaze cold and empty. When I talked to the social worker about my father’s final arrangements, I discovered I couldn't even claim his body. I was too poor to pay the eight hundred dollars for cremation. It was laughable. The wife of Rhys Sullivan was too broke to bury her own father. As I was leaving the hospital, I bumped right into Savannah. She smiled, blocking my path, her eyes gleaming with malicious triumph. “Mrs. Sullivan, I hear you’re pregnant. Funny, isn't it? I’m pregnant with Rhys’s baby, too.” I looked down, unwilling to engage. She became bolder. “Just heard the nurse say you don’t even have money for your father’s funeral? You’re certainly the most pathetic socialite I’ve ever seen.” I sighed. Socialite, high society wife—I didn't want any of it. I pushed past her and walked away. To earn the money for the funeral, I managed to get a job as a server at a luxury hotel. That very evening, the hotel was hosting a huge gala. Rhys arrived with Savannah, making a grand entrance, intimate and happy. I hid behind the velvet curtains, watching them. The event was their One Hundred Day Anniversary—a commemoration Rhys had organized to feel like a full-blown wedding reception. As the party peaked, Rhys held Savannah’s hand to cut a massive four-tiered cake. I, the legitimate Mrs. Sullivan, was weaving through the tables, serving champagne to the guests. I tried to avoid their eyes, but Rhys spotted me. His face contorted with revulsion and displeasure at my server uniform. Savannah gasped dramatically. “Mrs. Sullivan! What are you doing dressed like that?!” “Showing up here in that outfit—are you trying to humiliate Rhys? You really have no shame, begging for money this way!” I tried to hurry past, but Rhys grabbed my wrist. His eyes were blazing with fury. “Have you had enough, Jasmine?! I told you to stay home and rest!” I yanked my arm away, my voice flat and icy. “Mr. Sullivan, I’m just trying to earn money to bury my father. It has nothing to do with you.” Rhys sighed, shaking his head. He waved his hand, and an assistant rushed over, holding a small, ornate wooden box. “You’re acting like such a victim,” Rhys said, disappointment etched on his face. “I told the assistant to inform you I would handle your father’s arrangements. What is this performance for?” As he finished speaking, Savannah stepped forward and took the box. She walked toward me, then theatrically “tripped” on a small step, sending the box hurtling to the floor. My breath hitched. I screamed, diving forward, but I was too late. The urn shattered. My father’s ashes scattered across the polished ballroom floor. I frantically tried to gather the fine gray powder, but the harder I tried, the more it slipped through my fingers. My heart was a vortex of white-hot agony. I stared up at Savannah, my eyes red and burning. “You! You did this on purpose! You won't even let my father rest!” Savannah feigned shock, her voice falsely sweet. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sullivan. I truly didn’t mean to.” A surge of blind rage propelled me toward her. I raised my hand to strike. A hand clamped down on my wrist, hard. I looked up into Rhys’s cold, lethal gaze. He drew back his arm and slapped me across the face with brutal force. “Enough! Stop this hysteria, Jasmine!” “Your father is dead! It’s just a pile of dust! What difference does it make?!” “Savannah apologized! Can’t you let it go?! You’re turning into a monster, what’s the point?!” He shoved me to the floor and barked orders at his security detail. “Lock her up somewhere to cool down. Don’t release her without my explicit command!” He didn't spare me another glance as he wrapped his arm around Savannah and walked away. My head was spinning. The guards dragged me to the service elevator. The wound on my forehead, still not healed, bled freely, staining the pristine carpet. Two days later, Rhys finally remembered me. He rubbed his temples, his face etched with impatience. “Where is Jasmine? Two days is enough time to cool off, isn’t it? Where is she?” “She’s pregnant, take her home.” His assistant dropped to his knees in front of Rhys. “Mr. Sullivan, she… she can’t go home. Two days ago, she jumped.”
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