Chapter 1 - THIRTY-SEVEN CHARGESOn our second wedding anniversary, my husband came home, looked at the dinner I had spent five hours preparing, and told me he would not be eating with me.
Then Alexander Grant placed his unlimited black card beside my untouched plate and said I could buy whatever I wanted.
His only condition was that I not call, text, or interrupt the romantic evening he had planned with Sophia Reed.
The woman he had loved before me.
By midnight, that single act of arrogance would trigger thirty-seven payment alerts.
And force him to confront something far more expensive than money.
That afternoon, I still believed our anniversary might mean something to him.
I roasted potatoes in butter and rosemary.
I bought the exact cut of steak Alexander preferred and seared it medium rare.
I opened the Burgundy he once told me should be saved for an important occasion.
I moved our dining table closer to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking the Hudson and lit two ivory candles while February sleet tapped against the windows.
Beside Alexander's wineglass, I placed a small silver box.
The gift inside had taken me three months to prepare.
It was one of his grandfather's antique cuff links.
Alexander had accidentally broken it a year earlier and thrown it into a drawer after several jewelers told him the hand-painted enamel could not be repaired.
His grandfather, Henry Grant, had been the only member of his wealthy family Alexander spoke about with genuine affection.
So I kept searching.
Eventually I found an elderly restoration specialist outside Philadelphia.
I drove there twice.
Once through a snowstorm.
Alexander never asked where I had gone.
That was our marriage in one painful detail.
I knew exactly how he liked his coffee.
I knew which collar brands irritated his neck.
I knew he hated cilantro, preferred hotel rooms above the twentieth floor, disliked red clothing, and became quiet whenever someone mentioned Paris.
I knew the anniversary of his grandfather's death.
I knew which business failures still embarrassed him.
I knew which memories could soften his voice.
Alexander knew almost nothing about me.
Not because I had no life before him.
Because piece by piece, I had made myself smaller to fit inside his.
I stopped taking freelance interior-design work because his mother called it inappropriate for a Grant wife.
I stopped seeing friends on weeknights because Alexander's dinners appeared without warning.
I stopped wearing bright colors because he preferred understated elegance.
I stopped asking him where he had been when he came home after midnight because his expression always made me feel childish for caring.
Still, I believed patience would eventually become love.
At seven, the steak began cooling.
At seven-thirty, the butter hardened across the potatoes.
At eight, wax spilled down one candle.
No call.
No message.
At 8:06, the front door opened.
I stood so quickly my chair scraped the floor.
Alexander entered wearing a black cashmere coat.
He looked at the candles.
The food.
The silver box.
Then me.
His expression showed irritation.
Not surprise.
“I only came back because I didn't want the staff telling you first.”
My stomach tightened.
“Telling me what?”
“Sophia came back to New York today.”
There it was.
Sophia Reed.
The ghost in my marriage.
The woman in the photograph Alexander kept hidden behind paperwork in his desk.
The woman whose name his mother had once mentioned before stopping abruptly.
The woman associated with Paris, where Alexander had spent six months before meeting me.
“What does Sophia coming home have to do with tonight?”
“She has been going through something.”
“And?”
“I promised I'd meet her.”
I stared at him.
“You promised her dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Alexander, it's our anniversary.”
He checked his watch.
Actually checked it.
“I know.”
Something inside me cracked.
Not loudly.
Maybe because it had been cracking for two years.
“You're leaving your wife alone on your anniversary to have dinner with your former girlfriend?”
“Don't make this difficult, Erin.”
“I didn't make anything difficult.”
“Sophia needs support.”
I looked at the cold meal.
“And I don't?”
His jaw tightened.
“This is exactly what I don't have time for.”
Then he reached into his coat.
For one foolish second, I thought he had brought me a gift.
He pulled out his black card.
The one his bank supposedly had no practical spending ceiling on.
He placed it beside my plate.
“Go buy yourself something.”
I stared at it.
“Whatever I want?”
“Yes.”
“Anything?”
“Erin.”
“I'm asking.”
He sighed.
“Yes. Buy whatever you want.”
Then he pointed toward my phone.
“Just don't call me tonight. Don't text. Don't create some crisis because you're upset.”
The sentence did something no insult before it had managed.
It made me calm.
He wasn't worried that I might leave.
He wasn't worried that he had humiliated me.
He was worried I might inconvenience his evening with Sophia.
I picked up the card.
“Understood.”
Alexander studied me.
Maybe my calm bothered him.
Then his phone vibrated.
He looked down.
I saw the change in his expression.
Softness.
Whoever had messaged mattered.
Thirty seconds later, he left.
His Bentley disappeared through our gates into the sleet.
I poured myself the Burgundy.
For the first time in two years, I asked one question.
What did I want?
At 8:19, I called the private-client department of a Fifth Avenue department store Alexander's mother used.
The woman recognized my name immediately.
“Mrs. Grant, of course. We can keep a private salon open.”
“I'll be there in forty minutes.”
I blew out the candles.
Then changed into jeans.
The first thing I bought was a red cashmere coat.
Alexander hated red.
He once called it loud.
I loved it.
The coat cost $8,400.
Eighteen seconds after the payment cleared, my phone buzzed.
ALEXANDER:
Enjoy yourself.
I smiled.
The second purchase was black leather boots.
The third was a handbag.
The fourth was a cream evening coat.
The fifth was silk scarves.
At number six, I bought a midnight-blue dress because I liked the woman looking back at me from the mirror.
My phone vibrated.
ALEXANDER:
That's enough clothes, Erin.
I did not answer.
He had specifically told me not to interrupt him.
I obeyed.
At charge eleven, I bought a sapphire ring for my right hand.
Not an engagement ring.
Not something representing him.
Mine.
Alexander called.
I declined.
He called again.
Declined.
Then another number texted me.
SOPHIA:
Erin, this is Sophia.
I stared.
Another message appeared.
Alexander keeps checking his phone. Whatever is happening between you two is clearly distracting him. Could you please call him?
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
Sophia wanted me to stop distracting my husband from the dinner he abandoned me to attend with her.
I turned the phone facedown.
“Where is your luggage department?”
The saleswoman hesitated.
“Third floor.”
“Show me.”
Purchase twelve.
Large suitcase.
Purchase thirteen.
Carry-on.
Purchase fourteen.
Leather travel case.
That was when the evening changed.
Until then, I had been spending because I was angry.
Now I began spending like a woman preparing to leave.
I bought clothes appropriate for interviews.
A laptop.
Design software.
A professional camera.
A drawing tablet.
Tools I had sold when Alexander's mother convinced me my career was embarrassing.
At purchase twenty-one, Alexander texted:
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
I smiled.
Purchase twenty-two was a portable drafting workstation.
Twenty-three was a set of professional measuring equipment.
Twenty-four was a printer.
Twenty-five was a business phone.
At number twenty-six, I asked the private-client manager a different question.
“Do you sell furniture?”
She smiled cautiously.
“Through our home division.”
“Good.”
I purchased a desk.
A chair.
Shelving.
Lighting.
Everything necessary to build a design studio.
My design studio.
By charge thirty, Alexander had called eleven times.
I answered none.
Thirty-one was a hotel suite.
One month prepaid.
Thirty-two was storage.
Thirty-three was a rental car.
Thirty-four was a security deposit for a furnished apartment arranged through the store's concierge service.
Thirty-five was stationery.
Thirty-six was a bottle of champagne.
Then I knew exactly what thirty-seven needed to be.
I called a 24-hour legal service used by several wealthy Manhattan families.
“I need a divorce attorney.”
They connected me to Caroline Mercer.
At 11:51 p.m., I paid her emergency retainer with Alexander's black card.
Charge thirty-seven.
$25,000.
My phone rang instantly.
Alexander.
This time I answered.
He didn't say hello.
“What the hell did you just buy for twenty-five thousand dollars?”
I looked down at the red coat covering my shoulders.
“My future.”
“Erin.”
“You told me I could buy whatever I wanted.”
“Where are you?”
“Don't worry about it.”
“I am your husband.”
“Interesting timing to remember.”
Silence.
Then his voice dropped.
“What was the charge?”
I looked toward the luggage beside me.
“A lawyer.”
Another silence.
Longer.
“What kind of lawyer?”
I smiled.
“The kind you should probably hire too.”
Then I ended the call.
May you like
For once, Alexander called back.
And I was the one who chose not to answer.
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