Marrying the World’s Richest Man: My Ex-Husband’s Regret

"A hundred grand a month for sleeping with you isn't enough? And now you're asking me for another hundred grand?"

Joanna crumpled the hospital payment notice in her hand, her husband Chris Cooper's words cutting through the phone like shards of ice.

"Sleeping with you?" The phrase made her stomach turn. "Chris, we're married. This isn't some kind of transaction. How can you see me that way?"

Three years of marriage. Three years of believing that the hundred thousand a month he gave her meant trust, meant partnership. She'd been such a fool.

"What's the difference?" Chris's laugh was bitter. "Your family drugged me and threw you into my bed. The whole point was to trade you for money, wasn't it?"

Joanna's face burned with shame. She knew what her father Henry had done was unforgivable—drugging both her and Chris to force a marriage when the Jones family faced bankruptcy. But she'd spent three years trying to make it real, trying to earn Chris's love through dedication and devotion.

Clearly, she'd failed spectacularly.

"This is for my mother's surgery," Joanna said, forcing her voice steady. "I can show you the hospital bills. She needs—"

"How many times are you going to use this excuse?" Chris cut her off. "Last month, your brother's car accident. The month before, your dad's gambling debts. Now your mom is sick? Joanna, cursing your own family like this—don't you feel ashamed?"

"I'm not lying! This is life or death, Chris. You're my husband. My mother really needs this surgery—"

"Enough! I don't have time for this victim act," Chris snapped. "You spend recklessly all the time, and now you can't cover surgery fees? Consider it a lesson!"

Joanna's eyes fixed on the hospital TV screen mounted on the wall, where footage of last night's extravagant party played on repeat across the entertainment news.

"You spent ten million on an employee's birthday party," Joanna said, "but you won't spare a hundred thousand for your wife's mother?"

The silence on the other end told her everything she needed to know.

That party had been for Cynthia—Chris's design director, his former crush who'd conveniently returned from abroad three months ago. The woman the tabloids gleefully claimed would become the next Mrs. Cooper, while Joanna remained invisible—the forgotten wife no one even knew existed.

The wine alone at that party—cases of Romanée-Conti—could have covered her mother's entire treatment. And that pink diamond necklace Chris had personally clasped around Cynthia's neck, captured in high-definition for the world to see? Ten million dollars at last week's auction.

Joanna still remembered seeing that auction. "That's so beautiful," she'd told Chris. "I wonder which lucky woman will receive such a gorgeous necklace."

She never imagined the mysterious buyer was her own husband.

"You want to compare yourself to her?" Chris's sneer dripped with contempt.

Something inside Joanna snapped. Three years of swallowing her pride, of accepting scraps of affection, of pretending everything was fine—it all shattered in that moment.

"Why can't I compare myself to her? Every cent you spend on her is marital property—half of it is mine! She's spent my money while my mother lies in a hospital bed waiting for treatment! Take it back. Take it all back and pay my mother's medical bills!"

"Joanna! Know your place!" Chris's voice exploded through the phone. "I'm supporting your entire family! I made you Mrs. Cooper—that's the only reason you matter to anyone! You want to compete with her over money? Your whole family only knows how to spend mine, while she actually earns revenue for my company! What do you possibly have to compare with her?"

"Being a full-time wife means I've contributed to this family too!" Joanna's voice was hoarse. "Who manages your household? Who supervises the staff? Who networks with wives from other wealthy families on your behalf? I've worked hard for this marriage, Chris!"

"Your contribution?" Chris laughed cruelly. "Sitting in the garden drinking afternoon tea? Shopping? Buying designer clothes? Anyone with a credit card can spend money, Joanna! That's not contribution—that's consumption!"

The words hit like physical blows. Everything she'd done—managing the enormous Cooper estate, coordinating with the household staff, attending countless social functions to maintain his business relationships—all of it reduced to nothing in his eyes. Just frivolous spending by a useless wife.

Her heart went numb, that last fragile thread of hope finally severing.

"Chris," she said quietly, "let's get divorced."

She was done. Completely, utterly done.

"This manipulative act won't work on me!" Chris snarled. "I'm not giving you the money! You want a divorce? Go ahead and file! You think I'll beg you to stay? You think I need you? Cynthia brings my company a thousand times more value than you bring as a housewife! She's irreplaceable. You? You're not!"

The line went dead with a sharp click.

Joanna stared at her phone, then laughed—a hollow, broken sound. This was the man she'd loved for three years. The man she'd sacrificed everything for.

At least she'd woken up before it was too late.

She dialed a number she hadn't called in months. "Luke? That surgical case you offered me—I'll take it. But I need the hundred-thousand-dollar fee wired to my account right now."