And at first… they weren’t completely wr0ng.
I was 32, drowning in debt, barely keeping my apartment, and terrified every time my phone rang because I assumed it was another overdue bill.
Richard was 73.
Wealthy. Widowed. Powerful.
The kind of man who lived behind iron gates, wore watches worth more than my yearly salary, and never had to ask what anything cost.
Three months after we met, he proposed.
His children hated me immediately.
At our wedding, his daughter Rebecca leaned close and whispered:
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