My husband is incredibly wealthy, but I don’t love him. Back in college, he moved heaven and earth trying to win over my roommate, Chloe. Lavish gifts arrived one after another, and he once famously had nine thousand roses delivered to the front of our dorm building. All the girls in our hall got a piece of the action, hauling armfuls of roses back to our rooms like we were looting a botanical garden. The only one who remained unimpressed was Chloe herself. She even warned Julian Payne to never bother her again. “He’s rich, and he’s not bad-looking. Are you sure you don’t want him?” I asked one night, my face covered in a sheet mask, finally voicing the question that had been nagging at me. She had a face that could launch a thousand ships, yet she spent all her time with a broke upperclassman who juggled four part-time jobs. “No way. He’s so stuffy and serious. If you want him, you go for it,” Chloe said with a dismissive sniff. I rested my chin on my hand, gave it a moment’s thought, and nodded. “Fine.” “I will.”
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