Chapter 2

The moment I sent the text, the other end went silent for about thirty seconds.

Then another message popped up.

"Fifty bucks is fifty bucks. Are you really that desperate for cash? It's your own shop. Giving a discount won't kill your margins."

My fingers trembled with pure rage.

A discount?

What kind of discount turns ten grand into fifty bucks?

That was practically asking for free handouts!

I texted him back plainly:

"That's not my clinic."

After sending that message, I thought he would finally understand the situation.

Instead, his next message made me want to smash my phone against the sidewalk.

"Even if you don't want Martha spending your money, you don't have to lie and say it's not yours."

"Just consider this making it up to Martha."

"Who told you to hide the fact that you opened a clinic from her in the first place?"

Making it up to her?

A ninety-thousand-dollar compensation?

Ethan made sixty-five hundred dollars a month. Even if he starved himself and didn't spend a single cent, he couldn't save that much in a whole year.

I stared at the screen for a long time before deciding not to reply at all.

I shoved my phone back into my pocket and turned toward my own clinic.

It wasn't my business, so it wasn't my problem. I had zero desire to get involved.

I had been married to Ethan for three years.

Before we tied the knot, I thought he was wonderful—gentle, attentive, with a decent temper.

Who knew that the moment we got married, he would turn into a completely different person?

Everything his mother said was gospel. Everything had to follow his mother's schedule.

He had insisted we all live together, claiming he couldn't bear leaving his mother all alone.

Only after moving in did I realize it wasn't that he couldn't leave his mother—it was that his mother refused to let him go.

His mother, Martha, was a retired factory worker with a monthly pension of two thousand dollars.

Yet she spent money far more lavishly than someone pulling in twenty grand a month.

Especially in front of her circle of friends, she always had to play the generous big-shot.

She was always the one treating everyone to dinners, paying for karaoke nights, and sending out cash gifts.

What did she do when she ran out of money?

She demanded it from her son.

What happened when her son was tapped out?

They came knocking on my door.

Over these three years, the money I had poured into her amounted to at least a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

Every single time, I had swallowed my pride and taken the hit.

To keep the peace at home, to avoid screaming matches with Ethan, I had retreated again and again.

But this time, I wasn't backing down.

Ninety thousand dollars? Not in her wildest dreams.

I walked up to the front entrance of my clinic and pushed open the glass doors.

My receptionist, Chloe, rushed over, an awkward look plastered across her face.

"Claire, your husband just called the front desk."

I raised an eyebrow.

"What did he say?"

Chloe bit her lip, clearly struggling with how to phrase it.

"He told us to take extra good care of Martha and her friends. He said to give them the full VIP package and make sure not to charge them a single dime."

I let out a cold laugh.

"How did you respond?"

"I told him Martha wasn't here. He completely lost it, accused me of lying through my teeth, and cursed me out over the phone."

By the end of the sentence, Chloe's eyes were rimmed with red.

I gently patted her shoulder.

"Ignore him. If he calls again, hang up immediately."

Chloe nodded, then threw me a cautious glance.

"Claire... did Martha go to the luxury medical spa next door?"

"Yeah."

"Their full-set anti-aging package starts at twelve thousand dollars a person."

I froze for a second.

Twelve thousand?

That was even higher than my estimate.

The ninety-eight hundred I had quoted earlier was my own clinic's rate; I hadn't actually checked their finalized service menu today.

Well, isn't that fantastic. For nine people, it wouldn't just be ninety thousand. It would easily blow past a hundred thousand dollars.

Right as the thought crossed my mind, my phone buzzed again.

Martha had just posted on Ins.

I tapped it open to find a full nine-photo grid.

The first photo was a selfie of her lounging on the aesthetician's bed, gold leaf pasted all over her face, grinning so hard her wrinkles were practically folding over each other.

The second photo showed her eight friends sitting in a neat row.

The caption read: "Brought the girls to our family's medical spa for some self-care! Full anti-aging packages for everyone. A woman has to treat herself right!"