The year Wilbert and I were most in love, he took out a massive life insurance policy with me as the sole beneficiary, kissed my forehead, and told me I was his only religion. But by the second year of our marriage, he was sleeping with Polly—the daughter of the very mistress who had systematically destroyed my parents' lives. I hated him for the betrayal. To burn his world down, I leaked an explicit video of the two of them, watching with cold satisfaction as it went viral and ruined his family’s pristine name. He hated me back with a vengeance. To punish me, he used his family’s immense wealth and legal power of attorney to cut off the funding for my comatose mother’s ventilator, effectively pulling the plug. On the day of my mother’s funeral, Wilbert brought Polly right into our house, treating her like she owned the place. I lost my mind. I shattered a crystal decanter over his skull and picked up a carving knife, slicing off Polly’s index finger. To destroy me completely, Wilbert hired the most cutthroat defense attorneys in the state. They made an example of me, ensuring I received the absolute maximum sentence. Five years later, we met again. His wedding to Polly was only days away. He walked up to me and tossed two hundred-dollar bills onto the laminate table in front of me. "I’m short a bridesmaid for the ceremony in three days," he said, his voice flat. "Two hundred a day. You in?" I didn't look up. I snatched the cash off the table like a thief. "If you're paying, I'll do anything." As long as I had the money, I could finally lay my daughter's ashes to rest. … Once the cash was safely in my hand, greed—or maybe just desperation—made me push further. "The going rate for a last-minute bridesmaid is five hundred," I said, my voice raspy. "Two hundred is a joke. Bump it up." Wilbert’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with sudden, sharp irritation. "Megan, do you even know who I am? Look at me." I forced myself to meet his eyes. My gaze naturally fell on the faint, jagged line near his hairline—the scar where he’d needed eighteen stitches. I offered a polite, empty smile. "Of course I do. You're Wilbert Stephen, head of the Stephen Group. And my ex-husband." I paused, keeping my voice level. "But exes don't get a discount. I still charge market rate." Wilbert stared at me, his expression fracturing into something close to disbelief. "Megan... when did you become so transactional?" I let the question hang in the air for a moment. Compared to five years ago, when I treated money like dirt, I suppose I had become incredibly cheap. I let out a quiet sigh. "I don't have luxury on my side anymore, Wilbert. My market value is in the gutter. I have to eat whatever scraps are thrown my way." I looked at him steadily. "So, are you going to bump it up?" Without a word, he pulled a thick envelope of cash from his breast pocket and slapped it onto the table. "Is this enough?" I grabbed it immediately, counting the bills with practiced efficiency. "It's perfect." In reality, it was still a little short of what I needed to finalize the burial, but I knew Wilbert’s patience was paper-thin. I had to quit while I was ahead. I folded the bills carefully and tucked them into a canvas tote bag. It was a faded, mismatched thing, worn so thin that I'd had to patch the corners with coarse thread. Suddenly, Wilbert lunged forward and grabbed my wrist. His grip was white-knuckled and furious. "Megan, who the hell are you playing this pathetic victim for?" he snarled. "Where is the woman who broke bottles over heads and swung knives? Did she die in there?" He was yelling, and the volume sent a sharp, ringing pain through my left ear. During my first few months in the state penitentiary, I hadn't known how to keep my mouth shut. The guards and the older inmates had taught me the hard way, leaving me with a ruptured eardrum that never quite healed. Instinctively, I shielded the side of my face and lowered my head, keeping my voice submissive. "She's not dead. But please, keep your voice down. I'm working under the table here. If the manager catches me talking to you, I'll get fired." I looked up at him, pleading. "Mr. Stephen, you’ve never had to worry about rent, so you don't know how hard it is out here. Just let me earn a living." In the years after my release, I had spent every penny of my savings trying to pay for my daughter's cancer treatments. I couldn't even afford the permit for a street-vending cart anymore. This cheap event venue was one of the few places left that would hire an ex-con. The veins in Wilbert's hand bulged. "You've really hit rock bottom, haven't you? Selling your dignity for pennies. If your mother knew she raised a daughter who turned out like this, she’d claw her way out of her grave." I snapped my head up, a hot defense rising to my throat. But I forced myself to swallow it. Standing my ground might feel good for a second, but if he got angry enough to take the money back, I'd be ruined. My daughter had been sitting in the cold storage of the crematorium for six months. I couldn't let her wait any longer. I forced a dry laugh. "Well, if my mother could get angry enough to come back to life, I’d gladly let her yell at me." Wilbert looked as if he’d punched a wall of wet clay. His eyes were wide, filled with a deep, unsettling confusion. I saw it, but I felt nothing. What was he so confused about? He was the architect of my ruin, yet he stood there acting as if my fall from grace was a mystery. Before he could say anything else, Polly walked over, flanked by a small group of their high-society friends. She slid her arm through Wilbert’s, a clear, territorial gesture. "Wilbert, babe, what are you doing all the way over here?" Wilbert’s face instantly smoothed into a cool, detached mask. "You said your maid of honor got into that car accident and you were short a bridesmaid. I found a replacement for you." My eyes met Polly's. To be honest, a part of me still wanted to tear her face off. Her mother had ruined my family, and she had destroyed my marriage. If the universe were just, she wouldn't be breathing. But five years of gray walls and thin mattresses had ground my sharp edges into dust. "Mrs. Stephen," I said, my voice entirely placid. "If there’s anything you need me to do over the next three days, just let me know." A collective gasp went through her friends. "Mrs. Stephen" had been my title for years. Hearing me utter it so calmly to the woman who had taken my place was clearly more than they expected. Polly’s eyes flickered with a brief look of triumph, followed by a smug, pitying smile. "Oh, Megan. Having my husband's ex-wife in my bridal party... isn't that a little awkward?" "Not at all," I replied quickly. "I do everything now. Weddings, catering, clean-up, even funerals. If it pays, I'm available." I pulled a few scraps of paper from my pocket—cheap business cards I’d hand-written with my phone number—and began handing them out to her friends. "Small business. If any of you ever need extra help for an event, please keep me in mind." I don't know what part of that triggered Wilbert, but he suddenly snatched the papers out of my hand and tore them into shreds, throwing them to the floor. "Megan, if you don't stop this passive-aggressive act, I swear to God I'll lose my temper." Wilbert had never laid a hand on a woman. Even during our worst fights, when the house was being torn apart, he had never touched me. But looking at him now, I could see he was pushed to his absolute limit. I didn't understand why he was the one who was angry, but I stepped closer, tilting my face slightly toward him. "Do you want to hit me? You can," I whispered. "But it’s going to cost you. Five thousand dollars." To keep my daughter alive, I had spent the last year begging doctors, kneeling before hospital administrators, and practically begging on the street. My dignity had been stripped away a long time ago. If getting slapped paid the bills, I only wished someone had offered sooner. Maybe then, Hazel would still be here. Wilbert didn't raise his hand. Instead, his chest heaved as he let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "You want money that badly? Fine. You’re coming back to the estate tonight. Until the ceremony, you will cater to Polly’s every single need. I want to see exactly how long you can keep up this little performance." He turned on his heel, leading the group away. I didn't watch them leave. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a clean piece of napkin, rolled it into a tight plug, and pressed it into my left ear. It was bleeding again. Ignoring the damp warmth, I walked out of the venue and headed straight to the city crematorium. I found the accountant in the back office. "Hi. I'm here to make a payment for Hazel Monroe." Wilbert didn't know that when I was escorted to the state penitentiary five years ago, I was already pregnant. I hadn't told him because, at first, I wanted to end the pregnancy. I had even harbored a sick desire to mail the medical waste to his office. But the tiny life inside me was stubborn. No matter how much I wept or neglected myself, she clung to me. Eventually, the coldness in my heart thawed, replaced by a desperate, fierce love. My mother was dead. My husband was a monster. This baby was the only family I had left. I gave birth in the prison ward, one ankle chained to the metal bedpost. Under normal circumstances, a pregnant woman might have been granted medical parole or a suspended sentence. But the Stephen family owned the local judicial system. When Wilbert had me locked away, he had made sure the word went down: "Five years. Not a day less. Anyone who helps Megan Monroe is an enemy of the Stephens." So, no one helped. I raised Hazel in that concrete facility until she was five. I thought our release would be the start of a real life, but within months, she was diagnosed with advanced leukemia. I had tried to swallow my pride and find Wilbert. But his corporate security team threw me out before I could even reach the elevators. Later, I waited outside his penthouse, only to overhear him talking to his friends on the balcony. "Wilbert, you're being incredibly harsh on Megan," one of them had said, laughing. "What if she carried your kid in there?" I still remembered Wilbert’s voice—cold, sharp, and entirely devoid of humanity. "A woman like her doesn't deserve to carry my blood. If she did, I'd choke the life out of it myself." That statement had terrified me. I abandoned any thought of asking him for help. But cancer is a wealthy man's disease, and I was a penniless felon. The world treated us like stray dogs. In the end, Hazel died in a crowded county hospital ward, exactly as they probably wished. Since she had never known a single day of comfort or luxury in her short life, I wanted her departure to be decent. I had purchased a modest plot in a quiet cemetery on the edge of the city, and a simple service. The memory pricked at my skull like hot needles. I handed the crumpled bills to the accountant. The woman counted them and looked up. "You're still short one thousand dollars." "I'll have it," I promised. "Just three more days." "Alright. If the balance is cleared, we can proceed with the burial in three days." Three days. The exact day of Wilbert’s wedding. It was almost poetic. With the arrangements set, I began the long walk to the Stephen estate. I didn't have money for a cab, so I traveled on foot, arriving just as the sun was dipping below the horizon. Standing in the grand foyer of the mansion I used to call home, I felt incredibly small. After years of sleeping on thin shelter cot mattresses and hiding in public restrooms, the soaring ceilings and marble floors felt cold and vast. Polly was out, and the housekeeper told me Wilbert was in the shower. Nobody told me where to go, so I stood by the door, waiting. Ten minutes later, Wilbert came down the spiral staircase wearing a charcoal-silk robe. As he adjusted the collar, the fabric parted, and I saw the tattoo over his collarbone. "M.W." He had once told me that as long as those letters were etched into his skin, his love for me would never fade. I was the only fool who had believed him. Wilbert noticed my gaze and cleared his throat, pulling the robe tighter. "I've been too busy to get it lasered off." I nodded. "I understand." Knowing Polly, she would have forced him to burn it off years ago if he weren't lying. But it wasn't my business anymore. An uncomfortable silence stretched between us. He had hired me to be a bridesmaid, not a conversationalist, so I kept my mouth shut. Finally, Wilbert picked up a hair dryer from the side table and held it out to me. "Dry my hair." I stared at the appliance, a wave of familiarity washing over me. During our marriage, this had been a quiet, intimate ritual we shared nearly every night. Before I could speak, Wilbert added, "Five hundred dollars for ten minutes. Sound fair?" A dull ache bloomed in my chest. He knew exactly how to pull my strings now. Money was the only language I had left. I took the dryer, my fingers brushing against his warm hand. His skin had always run hot, while mine was perpetually cold. During the winters, he used to wrap himself around me in bed, whispering, "See, Megan? We fit together. We're built to keep each other warm." I had believed that, too. As the warm air hummed between us, Wilbert spoke over the noise. "Megan, are you really this desperate for money?" I kept my eyes on his dark hair, focusing on the movement of my fingers. He hadn't paid for a conversation, so I didn't answer. As his hair dried to a soft sheen, he asked another question, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Megan... do you regret it?" My hand froze for a fraction of a second. Did I regret it? If Wilbert had seen me during those endless prison nights, weeping until my throat was raw because I missed my mother, biting my hands until they bled to keep from screaming... If he had seen me six months ago, walking up the steep concrete steps of the local cathedral on my knees, begging a God I didn't believe in to take my life instead of my daughter's... If he had seen any of that, he would know that regret didn't even begin to cover the depth of my agony. If I could turn back time, I would never have fought him. I would have let him keep his mistress. I would have let him mock me. As long as my mother and my baby were still breathing, I would have swallowed every ounce of pride I possessed. But there were no rewinds in life. Lost in the dark spiral of my thoughts, my hand slipped, and the hot nozzle of the dryer pressed directly against his scalp. Wilbert hissed, flinching away from the heat. At that exact moment, the front door swung open, and Polly walked in, surrounded by her bridesmaids. Seeing me hovering over Wilbert, she lunged forward and shoved me hard. I lost my footing on the polished marble and tumbled to the floor. Wilbert’s scalp was bright red where the dryer had singed him. "Megan! You already tried to kill him and Polly five years ago," one of her friends screamed, pointing a finger at me. "Have you seriously not learned your lesson? Felons like you belong behind bars forever!" Listening to the chorus of insults, I slowly scrambled to my knees, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stephen," I whispered, my voice trembling slightly. "It was an accident. I'm so sorry." The foyer fell dead silent. Every single person in the room stared at me in shock. The Megan they remembered would have thrown the hair dryer at their heads and spat on the floor. Wilbert’s face turned an ashen gray. "Megan... why are you apologizing?" I looked up, meeting his eyes. There was a tempest of emotion in his gaze—confusion, anger, pain—but I was too exhausted to try and decode it. "Because you're the client," I said simply. "I don't want you to withhold my payment." My daughter's burial was the only thing that mattered. Wilbert's fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. "You... you've become a complete stranger." I didn't reply. They hated who I used to be, and they hated who I was now. I didn't have the energy to figure out how to please them. Eventually, Polly took Wilbert’s arm and led him upstairs. For the next three days, I stayed at the estate. I wasn't allowed near the guest rooms, so they tucked me into a tiny, windowless service room off the kitchen. The elderly housekeeper, who had survived the transition from my marriage to Polly's reign, brought me a cup of tea on the second night. "Megan, dear... isn't this hard for you? Being back here like this?" I shook my head, taking a sip of the warm tea. "No. I have a warm bed, a hot shower, and clean clothes. I'm actually very grateful." My only regret was that I had never been able to give Hazel a room this nice. The run-up to the wedding was a blur of exhausting labor. Polly claimed that because I had been married before, I knew the logistics better than anyone, so she put me in charge of organizing the floral arrangements, setting up the tables, and lifting heavy crates of decorations. My lower back burned with a dull, constant ache. I did everything flawlessly, desperate to ensure they had no excuse to deny me my money. The evening before the ceremony, I went to find Wilbert to collect my payment. But before I could reach his study, Polly and her friends cornered me in the grand parlor. "The wedding is tomorrow, Megan," Polly said, leaning against the mahogany bar. "Where do you think you're going?" "I need my money," I said, keeping my hands clasped in front of me. "I was told I'd be paid before the rehearsal." The bridesmaids burst into cruel, mocking laughter. "You want your money?" one of them sneered. "First, you need to pay for what you did to Polly's hand." I froze. "What do you mean?" Polly pointed to a cardboard box on the floor. "Put that on. Get down on your knees, and apologize properly." Inside the box was a cheap, garish clown costume and a cardboard sign on a string. Written on the cardboard in thick black marker were the words: "$80 a turn." A cold sweat broke out across my collarbone. I stared at Polly, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Are you really going to let them do this?" Polly crossed her arms, her expression entirely cold. "I don't think they're doing anything wrong. You took my finger, Megan. Making you apologize on your knees is incredibly generous of me." "I spent five years in prison for that finger, Polly. We're even." "We're only even when I say we are," Polly snapped. "You want the cash? Get in the suit and get on your knees. If you don't, I'll tell Wilbert you tried to attack me again. With your record, you'll be back in a cell by midnight." My hands shook, my vision blurring with a sudden, hot rush of tears. But then I pictured Hazel. I pictured her small, cold urn sitting on a metal shelf in the back of the crematorium. Reality crushed the last remnants of my pride. "If I do this," I whispered, looking up at Polly, "will you give me the money immediately?" "Yes." I reached into the box and pulled out the oversized, ridiculous clown suit. I slipped it over my clothes, hung the cardboard sign around my neck, and sank to my knees on the cold marble floor. "Polly," I said, my voice choking on the humiliation. "I did it. Give me the money." The girls erupted into a chorus of giggles, recording me on their phones. "Look at her. She really has no dignity left," one whispered. "If you want the cash, you have to crawl around the room," Polly added, her eyes gleaming. "And every time you pass someone, you have to say the words on the sign." I forced myself up, a sudden, blinding rage flaring in my chest. "Polly, don't push me!" She smiled, entirely unfazed. "Don't want to? Fine. No money for you." I reached for the zipper of the suit, ready to tear it off and walk out. But then my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw a automated text from the crematorium: "Dear Ms. Monroe, if the outstanding balance of $1,000 is not settled within the hour, your scheduled service will be cancelled, and holding fees will apply." My hand froze on the zipper. I looked at the women laughing at me, and then I slowly lowered myself back to the floor. "Remember what you promised," I whispered, my voice dead. "If you lie to me after this, I will make sure we all go down together." I had nothing left to lose. I crawled forward, my knees scraping against the hard floor. I dragged myself past the first bridesmaid. "Eighty dollars," I whispered. "You want a turn?" By the time I reached the fifth person, a shadow fell over me. Before I could look up, a furious voice shattered the room. "Megan! What the hell are you doing?" I looked up to see Wilbert standing there, his face contorted in absolute fury. I wanted to explain, but then I saw Polly quickly slip a thick stack of cash into her purse. I closed my mouth. There was no point. They were going to be husband and wife. He would always take her side. Seeing my silence, Polly stepped forward, her voice suddenly sweet and concerned. "Wilbert, honey, don't be mad. She was just playing a game with us. She wanted her money, so I paid her." She pulled the cash out and tossed it onto the floor in front of me. I scrambled to pick it up, counting every bill before stuffing it into my bag. "We don't need you for the ceremony tomorrow," Polly said, her tone dripping with fake pity. "You can leave now." As I stood up to walk out, I passed Wilbert. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with a deep, crushing disappointment. I let out a silent, bitter laugh. What right did he have to be disappointed in me? This was the monster he and his wife had created. The next morning, the rain was a cold, steady drizzle. I had cleared the balance at the crematorium, and Hazel’s small white urn was finally placed in the front seat of the hearse. I sat in the passenger side, clutching her framed portrait to my chest. We had only driven a few miles toward the cemetery when the hearse came to a sudden halt. Ahead of us, the narrow two-lane road was completely blocked. But unlike our quiet, somber procession, the roadblock ahead was a vibrant, ostentatious display of red wedding limousines and luxury SUVs. A driver from the wedding party walked up to our window, tapping on the glass. "Hey, we're a wedding procession. You guys need to back up and let us through." For the first time in five years, the submissive, broken woman I had become vanished. I looked at the driver of the hearse, my voice steady and cold. "Tell them we aren't moving." The two columns of vehicles sat nose-to-nose on the wet asphalt, neither willing to budge. After a few minutes of shouting, the groom himself stepped out of the lead limousine. Wilbert walked through the rain, his tailored tuxedo pristine, holding a stack of cash and a box of expensive wedding favors. He knocked on our window, his face tight with impatience. "Look, whoever is in there, today is my wedding day. Please, take this and clear the road." I pushed the door open, stepping out into the cold drizzle. I held Hazel’s portrait high so he couldn't avoid it. "Wilbert," I said, my voice carrying clearly through the damp air. "This time, I'm not moving."
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