Part 1Fifty Dollars For A Life

The third week of the mandated cooling-off period ended, and I rescinded the divorce filing. Eliza and I were officially, sickeningly, back together.

She hosted a celebration, inviting a close-knit group of her friends. Three glasses of wine in, someone suggested we play a round of "I've Never."

“I’ve never had a spouse cheat on me and then still taken them back for the sake of the marriage—drink up!”

Every single eye in the room swiveled to me.

Eliza’s smile froze. Her brow furrowed, ready to scold the person who’d spoken.

I didn't react the way I used to—a quick, furious glare or a silent, dramatic exit. Instead, I smiled, raised my glass, and drained it.

“It’s all in the past,” I said, the words tasting like ash.

Grant, Eliza’s childhood best friend and the elephant in the room, snickered, leaning forward.

“My man, you’re seriously whipped. No wonder everyone calls you a walking punchline.”

A beat of silence, then a burst of cruel laughter.

“Gotta hand it to Eliza, she’s trained him well!”

“Seriously, an icon for us ladies, ha ha ha!”

Eliza’s friends were exactly as they always were: cold, cutting, and full of contempt for me.

She reached out to grab my hand, a gesture of performative comfort, but I shifted just enough to avoid her touch. I shook my head, keeping the smile fixed. It was fine.

It truly was fine. All of it was over.

Her betrayal, our marriage, the man I used to be—it had all run its course.

* * *

The game continued. The next person raised a hand, their voice ringing out.

“I’ve never done everything a couple does—the trips, the nights, the promises—with someone I wasn’t actually dating. Take a drink if you have!”

The words had barely left his lips before all attention snapped back to me.

Everyone knew the score. Eliza’s affair had been with Grant. And I, historically, was the kind of person who’d burn down a village just to scorch one enemy.

When I first found out about the infidelity, I went nuclear. I almost ruined her law firm’s reputation. They were all waiting, leaning back with a smug, anticipatory thrill, hoping I’d erupt and create a scene for their entertainment.

But I didn’t give them what they wanted. I rested my chin on my palm and looked sweetly at the two main characters.

“Go on, drink up. Don’t be poor sports.”

Grant picked up his glass with a challenging smirk, slid onto Eliza’s lap, and started to lean in for a joint shot.

Eliza shoved him off, stood up so fast her chair scraped, and yanked my wrist. She didn’t stop until we were outside, ignoring the calls of her friends echoing behind us.

Once we were on the sidewalk, she dropped my arm, her face a storm of annoyance.

“What’s with the Mr. Forgiving act? Is this supposed to be charming?”

I frowned, genuinely confused by her shift in anger. I pulled a cigarette from my coat and lit it, tilting my head toward her.

“Your friends asked the questions to humiliate me. You’re mad at me? Besides, you did those things. Can’t handle the heat?”

That last line—Can’t handle the heat?—seemed to trigger something deep. Her eyes went flat and dark.

She had used those exact words on me the day I discovered her affair.

She’d claimed it was a dare, a game she lost, and that the sex was not willing. I had sobbed and screamed at her that day. She’d just impatiently lit a cigarette.

“God, are you really that dramatic? It was a lost game, a one-night thing. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?”

Back then, I couldn’t understand how Eliza could be so brazenly unremorseful. I demanded a divorce right then, refusing the easy out she offered.

But the next day, I understood everything. The reason she could be so calm, so entitled, was simple: she knew I was already hers.

I knocked on the doors of her high-rise law firm and knelt on the cold marble floor.

“Please, Eliza. Help my dad. Only you can get the verdict overturned.”

“I’m begging you.”

Eliza’s self-satisfaction was almost blinding. She gently helped me stand up.

“Dean, I told you. As long as you stay by my side, I can do anything for you.” She brushed dust off my knee. “I’ll handle the case. All you have to do is promise not to make a scene about Grant again.”

My eyes burned, but I swallowed the bitter, metallic taste of my own defeat and nodded.

If she could save my father, I would do anything.

My mind snapped back to the present. Eliza snatched the cigarette from my lips, threw it to the ground, and crushed it under her heel. She stared at me, then rubbed her temples with an air of deep fatigue.

“Fine. You better keep the act going.” She looked past my shoulder, then back at me, a strange expectation in her eyes. “Go home. I need to take Grant back to his place later.”

She was waiting for it—the familiar flash of jealousy, the old demand that she choose me over Grant. But she seemed to forget that every time I had argued with her about Grant over the years, she’d been annoyed.

“His parents entrusted him to me. Why are you so childish? Can you please stop being so dramatic?”

So now, I just nodded. No fuss. I turned and walked toward the street to hail a cab.

I could feel her stare burning a hole in my back. Just as I opened the taxi door, I paused and looked back. I caught the brief, hungry flash of hope in her eyes before I spoke.

I curved my lips into a thoughtful, solicitous smile.

“Get some rest. You have the court session tomorrow. Don’t forget what you promised me.”