"Atty. Irving," I said, "draft a divorce agreement. I'll walk away with nothing."
There was a long pause on the other end.
"Sir, are you sure?" he asked carefully. "You really want to walk away with nothing? Has Sir Gerard approved this? Maybe you should at least negotiate for your own rights."
At his words, a bitter smile tugged at my lips.
With that, I couldn't help but think, 'Rights? Did I ever really have any?'
When I was dragged back into the Johnson family, my father and brother treated me like a spare part—a tool—something useful, not someone valuable.
And Margaux?
She made her position clear the night before our wedding.
I earned eight grand a month. That was supposed to cover all the household expenses.
Her company's dividends? They were labeled as premarital assets. Completely off-limits.
The villa, Starlight Heights, where we lived?
Before I ever set foot inside, she'd already had it notarized under her name.
To prove I wasn't in it for her money, I signed everything she wanted—every document and every condition.
But when I saw what she prepared as a bride price for her ex?
That's when the delusion shattered.
That's when I finally realized I wasn't her husband.