My wife's male assistant deliberately ruined a painting I'd spent two full years creating.
In my anger, I made him work as a servant for three days—cleaning my art exhibition.
Kathleen Vance said nothing at first. Acted like nothing had happened.
But three months later, her company declared bankruptcy. She was thrown in prison.
To pay off tens of millions in debt, I worked three jobs a day, running myself into the ground.
For three whole years, debt collectors cornered me in dead-end alleys and humiliated me.
For a hundred dollars, I took a job as a "haunted house sleep tester."
Then one night, while I was serving tables, I heard her—Kathleen Vance, who was supposed to be rotting in prison—throwing a lavish birthday party for her male assistant.
A friend asked, "Kathleen, you gave Nathan Harding a million-dollar watch, while your dear husband is risking his life in haunted houses for a hundred bucks. How can you be so heartless?"
Kathleen exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke and laughed coldly.
"Who told Abner Sanchez to force Nathan to be a servant? These three years are his punishment."
"Once the three years are up, I'll pretend to make a comeback."
"And he'll still be my devoted husband."
My body swayed in the cold wind. I stood there like a broken puppet.
So these three years of living hell—they were all part of your plan. Your punishment.
Fine then. I'll pay you back double.
1.
My entire being felt submerged in ice. Yet from inside, I could still hear another voice—Denise Winfield, one of her friends.
"Kathleen, he's still your husband. Before you married him, he was a pampered young heir. Don't you think you've been a little too cruel?"
"Last time I saw Abner, he looked terrible. Gaunt. Like he's barely hanging on."
Kathleen's voice was flat.
"We agreed on exactly three years. Not one day less."
"Besides, there's only a month left. He's made it this far. What's another few days?"
Denise hesitated, then spoke again.
"He came to me a while back. Begging. Just wanted to borrow a few hundred dollars."
"The great Abner Sanchez, heir to a fortune—I've never seen him so desperate."
Kathleen snorted. "You didn't lend it to him, did you?"
"Of course not. You said anyone who helped him would be dead to you. I wouldn't dare."
Through the haze of smoke, Kathleen smiled coldly.
"Smart girl."
"Abner Sanchez has always been arrogant and difficult. Nathan accidentally damaged one of his paintings, and he made Nathan serve as a house servant for three days."
"That kind of entitlement needed to be corrected. And look—three years of punishment really did the trick."
Her voice dripped with pride. Satisfaction.
As if her punishment had reformed me. Made me a new man.
Denise sighed and swallowed whatever else she'd meant to say.
There were things she kept hidden.
Like what happened that day.
I had knelt before her.
Unbuttoned my own shirt.
"Just five hundred dollars. Please."
"Kathleen is sick in prison. She needs medical fees. I'm five hundred short."
They exchanged glances—then burst out laughing.
"Is this really the great Abner Sanchez?"
"You used to be so proud. Wouldn't wear shoes that cost less than ten thousand. Now you're selling yourself for five hundred?"
I could only kneel there, listening, my face blank.
What expression was I supposed to wear?
Every shred of pride, every ounce of dignity—ground into nothing by reality.
"If you're willing to pay more..."
My voice cracked.
"I'll pose however you want."
