Five years ago, Lucas asked if I wanted to leave with him. I said yes. I was always clear-eyed about it. There was no love between us. He needed a wife. I needed money. I played the role of a wife dutifully, spending his money recklessly. I asked him if it hurt his wallet. He was rich enough to just smile and say: "If it's not enough, just ask." Five years into the marriage, Lucas died. Great. No one to nag me about smoking or drinking. I could take the fortune he left me and have fun with young guys whenever I wanted. Three days after Lucas died, I received a letter written five years ago. The first line read: To my beloved wife. 1 The moment Lucas died, I went clubbing for three days straight. I popped bottles worth tens of thousands of dollars without blinking. A row of male models stood before me, waiting for me to pick. When I finally got tired and went home, Lucas’s lawyer handed me a letter. "This is a letter Mr. Vance left for you. According to his will, you are the sole heir to his entire estate." My eyes widened in shock. Oh my god. Was Lucas crazy? We were only married for five years, no kids, and he left me everything? "Are you sure?" The lawyer nodded. "Mr. Vance drafted the will himself. There is no mistake." Lucas must have lost his mind. I could barely keep the corners of my mouth from twitching up. The sheer joy went to my head, and I momentarily forgot about the letter he left me. The people most upset about Lucas leaving me everything were, of course, his relatives. When Lucas was dying, they were draped over his hospital bed, crying their lungs out. They put on such a show, only to get absolutely nothing. Lucas’s parents died when he was young. His only heir was me. The relatives stormed my house, looking ferocious, demanding I split the money. I used to hustle on the streets. I’ve seen all kinds of people. Did they think they could out-scum me? I was Lucas’s wife for five years. I earned this money. Trying to pry cash out of my hands? Keep dreaming. I crossed my arms, leaned against the doorframe, and sneered as they barked like dogs. "You want money? Fine." "Lucas and I didn't have kids. Whichever one of you gets on your knees and calls me 'Mommy,' I'll give you the kid's share." These people were ancient. Their combined age was in the hundreds. They turned purple with rage, pointing fingers at my nose. "You gutter trash! Lucas just died and you're already spending his money on men! Karma will get you!" I smiled, unbothered. "Uncle, ever heard of carpe diem?" The dead are gone. The living need to live it up, right? Besides, Lucas and I had no feelings. I married him for the money. Picking up a fortune for free? I’d wake up laughing from a dead sleep. In this life, money is king. Everything else is bullshit. 2 After cursing away the leeching relatives, the 6'2" model I just added on Instagram called me. "Babe, when are you coming to see me? I can't sleep without you." His whiny, flirtatious tone made my heart flutter. "Got some stuff to handle. Not coming for a few days." I transferred him $9,999. A little pocket change to keep him sweet. Hanging up, I sat on the leather sofa, sipping red wine, thinking about how to spend the money. So many zeros. It could cure trypophobia. This was the life I had fantasized about. Money, time, freedom. No more living in the shadows. Eat what I want, buy what I want, answer to no one. Aside from everything else, I was actually grateful to Lucas. Years ago, he met me at a gala where I snuck in to find a sugar daddy. He asked if I wanted to leave with him. I asked why. He smiled and said he needed a wife. Conveniently, I needed money. A fair trade. Win-win. Suddenly, I remembered the letter he left me. I didn't know where I tossed it. What could he possibly say? A standard, gentle, boring gentleman like him? Probably some poetic nonsense. I didn't care. I was actually annoyed that even in death, he wanted to lecture me. The wine wasn't strong enough. I’m a heavy drinker. I went downstairs to get the ice wine I chilled. Opening the fridge, I saw a sticky note on the door. Drink less ice wine. Drink less in general. I froze. I remembered. Lucas wrote this. He hated my smoking and drinking. Said it was bad for my health. He tried to quit with me several times. I never stuck with it. I told him flatly: "Habits from a long time ago. Can't change." I clawed my way up from the gutter. I suffered too much. Alcohol and nicotine numb the pain. Of course I was dependent. Even after marrying Lucas and becoming a rich wife, I couldn't change. Not elegant, not proper, not gentle. Lucas never scolded me. No disgust in his eyes. Just gentle warmth, like a sun-dried quilt. "Good habits can be formed too. I'll do it with you." He didn't drink, didn't smoke, had no vices. His hobbies were gardening, calligraphy, and reading. Mild and calm, as if he could never get angry. To me, he was boring to the extreme. I liked loud, thrilling things. I liked everything fresh and new. I was flashy, letting everyone know I had money. The complete opposite of Lucas. I dressed loud. Once I got rich, I piled expensive things on myself, regardless of whether they matched. People mocked me as a tasteless nouveau riche. I didn't care. I asked Lucas if I embarrassed him. He just smiled gently and said: "You are very beautiful." Just like that, we coexisted peacefully under one roof for five years. 3 Seeing the note, I clicked my tongue in annoyance and slammed the fridge shut. Still trying to control me from the grave. So annoying. Lost the mood to drink. I turned and went back upstairs. The room was quiet. On the nightstand sat the book he used to read every night. Thick and heavy. I used to joke it would make a good paperweight for instant noodles. He laughed and said I could try it after he finished reading. The letter I had tossed aside was sitting right on top of that book. I opened it. Two thin sheets of paper. Strong, elegant handwriting. His handwriting. I'm uneducated. Dropped out of high school to hustle. To me, writing letters is old-fashioned and tacky. But his letter had a faint scent that made me less resistant. The lawyer said this letter was written five years ago. Lucas instructed him to give it to me only after his death. That meant he knew he was going to die a long time ago. We had just gotten married, and he prepared this letter. What would it say? That marrying me was just making do? Or that now that he's dead, I should divorce him and stay out of his family genealogy because a woman like me would stain his reputation? If he was so afraid of me staining him, why marry me in the first place? Just thinking about it made me furious. I let out a scornful laugh, wanting to see what bullshit this dead man had to say. The first line: To my beloved wife. 4 Growing up, my family favored boys over girls. My parents' incompetence was the source of my pain. To support the little prince of the family, I was kicked out at fourteen to work illegally. I knew from a young age that no one loved me. To get my parents' approval, I sent every penny home, keeping only enough to not starve. When I went home for Chinese New Year, my parents were unusually warm and gentle. I was secretly happy, like a kid getting a toy they wanted. New Year's Eve, after dinner, they told me not to go back to work. They found a "good family" for me. $15,000 dowry. The man was twenty years older than me, had two dead wives, and was disabled. No parent pushes their child into a fire pit. So that night, I packed my things, accepted the fact that my parents didn't love me, stole their money, and ran. I worked all kinds of jobs. Legal, illegal. As long as I got paid and stayed alive, I didn't care. At twenty, I met a man. He was thoughtful. Bought me flowers, cakes, dresses. He took me for rides by the river on his electric scooter. The river wind was cold and damp, but my heart was warm. A man working construction sites, yet he had such a warm, sincere heart. He didn't mind my background. He hurt for my past. He was different from everyone else. I fell deep into his trap of love. Until he gambled, got drunk, beat me black and blue, and ran off with my money. Only then did I clearly realize: no one in this world loves me. I am discarded trash. A fly. Love is worth less than shit to me. I don't want love anymore. I want money. Lots of it. I became a sugar baby, worked as a hostess, a cam girl. Except for being a homewrecker or committing crimes, I did everything. I saved up a good amount over those years. Later, I met a kid begging on the street because he couldn't afford school. I felt soft-hearted and gave him a hundred bucks. That night, I was targeted by his gang. Home invasion. Robbery. I almost died. I asked him why. The kid said everyone else gave a dollar or five. I gave a hundred, so I must be rich. With a cold knife against my neck, I swore: If I survive, I will be a bad woman. Mean, vicious, selfish, low, cold. 5 When you read this letter, I will already be dead. I couldn't read past the second sentence. It was so melodramatic. It made me irritable. I stuffed the letter back messily and rolled my eyes. Did he think he was some savior? Saving a fallen woman like me, giving me warmth and a home, so I should mourn him forever? Ha. Married five years and he still didn't know me. I'm heartless. He just died, and I'm out clubbing, drinking with models, living the same debauched life as before. I told him before we got married. He said he didn't mind. I couldn't help it. I took the letter out again. I knew you wouldn't have the patience to keep reading. There was a cheeky smiley face drawn after the last word. Something he would do. "Fuck!" He knew me too well in this regard. This is a farewell letter, not a lecture. Read it without worry. I am deeply sorry that knowing my time was short, I still proposed to you and asked you to be my wife. My fingers gripping the paper tightened unconsciously. My heart skipped a beat, like cotton was stuffed in my throat. Why apologize? I was grateful to him. He was generous alive, and generous dead. A man willing to treat his wife well like this wouldn't be bad at anything. Oh, except having a short life. Just as I was about to read on, my phone rang. Unknown number. As soon as I picked up, I heard a familiar voice: "Vivian, it's Dad. Your man died and left you a lot of money, right? Your brother is getting married and needs cash. I know you have it. Taking out a hundred or two hundred thousand to help your brother isn't a big deal." A hundred thousand? He dared to dream? "I can burn some hell money for you, want that?" I hung up violently, no longer in the mood to read the letter. I could think with my toes and know it was Lucas’s hypocritical relatives who gave my number to that old bastard. What trash. Every single one of them looked down on me, thought I was low-class, unworthy of Lucas. Every holiday gathering, they had to passive-aggressively put me down. In the end, they're all just trying to scrape some money from me. But Lucas was a good man. Every time those relatives spoke ill of me, gentle, scholarly Lucas would use his vast vocabulary to curse them out without using a single dirty word. Seeing those self-righteous old farts turn red with rage, I had to pinch Lucas's thigh under the table to stop from laughing. I acted flashy, had no "aristocratic elegance." Uncle Lucas would lecture me that a wife should be virtuous and raise children. Made sense. Taking Lucas's money, I should do something. I pinched my throat to make my voice gentle, walked with small, slow steps. I looked like a waddling penguin. Lucas laughed, pulled me onto his lap, and said: "You don't need to be virtuous. Just be yourself." Other rich wives managed the household for their husbands. I lay around drinking and singing. Lucas came home and had to carry drunk-me to bed. Tsk tsk. Thinking about it, I really took advantage of him these five years. Kinda sorry about that. I sat on the bed, dazed. The room was so quiet my ears were ringing. The phone rang again. I thought it was my dad. Ready to curse him out, but it was the funeral home.
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