Part 3My Billionaire Wife Starved Me

By noon the following day, everything of value had vanished from the penthouse.

The Italian leather sofa, the smart appliances, the designer audio setup, even the rare fiddle-leaf figs on the balcony.

Damon stood in the marble entryway with a tablet, ticking off line items as two uniformed movers loaded the final crate.

"Make sure the inventory matches," Damon drawled without looking up. "Otherwise, Mr. Bishop might find a way to pawn the drywall before Mrs. Bishop gets back."

I stood barefoot against the cold hardwood, hollow, powerless to stop him.

After the heavy door clicked shut, leaving only an echo in the cavernous space, I stared at the blank walls and let out a broken laugh.

My phone buzzed with a local gig-economy alert: "Urgent: Barback needed for weekend night shift. Cash pay, $150 per night."

If I worked in secret for ten days, I could scrape together enough for the clinical treatment on my own.

I took the bus to the bar that afternoon. The floor manager eyed my thin frame and pale face, but seeing how desperately I nodded to every condition, he hired me on the spot. Shift starting in three days.

Stepping out onto the pavement, I pulled out my phone to text Brett.

My fingers barely typed his name before the world tilted violently on its axis. A wave of blackness rolled over my eyes, the pavement rushed up to meet me, and everything went silent.

When I opened my eyes, the smell of bleach and antiseptic hit me. I was in a hospital ward, an IV line taped to the back of my hand.

A young nurse noticed me stirring and adjusted the drip rate on a bag of pale yellow fluid. "You passed out cold on the sidewalk from severe hypoglycemic shock and systemic malnutrition. This is high-concentration glucose and amino acids."

She shook her head, her eyes brimming with disbelief. "I've worked the ER for five years, and I've never seen an adult with medical insurance starve himself into a coma. Where is your wife? What kind of spouse lets someone get like this?"

I tightened my fingers around the thin hospital sheet. "I don't have a wife."

Her face softened with pity. "Your health is all you have, sweetheart. Don't punish yourself like this."

I nodded numbly. I had spent an entire year thinking that being provided for meant I would at least be fed.

When it came time for discharge, I called Mallory three times. Each call rang twice before clicking straight to voicemail.

Left with no choice, I had to call Brett again. Within twenty minutes, he covered the discharge bill via wire.

"You literally collapsed on the street, and she won't even pick up the damn phone?" Brett raged over the line. "Does she have a heart made of granite? I’m going to her office right now—"

"Brett, please," I choked out. "Let me handle it. I've made up my mind about the clinic. I'll talk to her tonight."

To my shock, when I unlocked the front door of the barren apartment, Mallory was actually there.

She wore an apron over her silk blouse, carrying a steaming dish out of the kitchen. Seeing me walk in, her expression remained guarded, void of warmth.

"Why is the fridge completely bare?" she asked, setting the dish down. "Is this how you’ve been living while I’m away?"

Before I could form a sentence, an acidic wave surged up my esophagus. I clamped my hand over my mouth, sprinted into the guest bathroom, and fell to my knees, dry-heaving violently over the porcelain bowl until my ribs felt bruised.

Footsteps stopped at the threshold. Mallory frowned down at me.

"What's wrong with you? Why are you so pale?" She handed me a paper cup of water, her tone laced with mild irritation. "Since when did you become so fragile?"

I rinsed the bitter bile from my mouth, leaning my head against the cold tile.

"Give me some money, Mallory."

The bathroom fell completely silent. Mallory let out a cold, sharp breath.

"So this whole theatrics... it's just about money again?" Her eyes hardened. "Those three missed calls this afternoon. Money?"

I used the edge of the sink to pull myself to my feet. "Yes."

Mallory looked at me as if I were a stranger she had picked up off the street. "You really are incurable. You'd do anything for a payout, wouldn't you?"

She tore off her apron, grabbed her designer trench coat, and headed for the foyer. At the door, she paused, her back to me.

"I'll have Damon wire you a discretionary sum."

The front door slammed, rattling the empty apartment.

I dragged my feet to the dining table. She had made glazed short ribs—my favorite thing in the world once upon a time. But just catching the scent of the grease made my stomach twist into painful, violent knots.

The next morning, my phone buzzed with an alert from Damon.

"Mr. Bishop, greed has a way of ruining everything. These incessant demands are only driving Mrs. Bishop further away. Mrs. Bishop has instructed that if you reach out for unscheduled funds again, next month’s stipend will be cut by half."

Below the text was a twenty-five-dollar transfer.

I stared at the twenty-five dollars for a long, quiet minute before tapping "Accept".

At least it bought me breakfast.

Sitting in the empty living room, the quiet felt suffocating. Begging for scraps in a marriage that was supposed to be a sanctuary had finally drained the last drop of dignity out of me.

My fingers moved over the screen, typing out the words I should have said months ago:

"Since keeping me alive is an inconvenience, let's just get a divorce."