Even the off-white walls were covered with photos of Lucille. Tucked between them were a few shots of Julian from behind.
It was obvious.
Whoever had decorated this apartment had poured their heart into it.
Hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Paid in full.
Lucille's name on the deed.
Lucille's bracelet.
Three million dollars.
That was supposed to be my wedding anniversary gift. And then there was the silk robe Lucille was wearing, and Lucille's manicure, and the tea set on the coffee table, and the brand of tea beside it. Every single item was far from cheap.
Every single item.
Reeked of luxury.
I looked down at my own bare nails. No polish, no decoration. Then I looked at my palms, rough with calluses built up over years of hard work. And my clothes, my shoes, head to toe, not even worth a thousand dollars combined.
It all felt so absurd. So absurd that a laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
"Julian."
I cut him off.
"Since you're already married," I took one last look at the marriage certificate in Lucille's arms, "there's nothing left for us to talk about."
I didn't wait for Julian.
I didn't need to hear his explanation.
All I knew was this: