My Husband Wasn't the Only Liar

Claire Bennett built her marriage the way she built her fortune: with clear eyes, sharp numbers, and no illusions about love. So when her husband, Ethan, announces that he is pretending to be poor for a younger woman, Claire is less offended by the affair than by the insultingly low breakup fee he plans to offer.

Then the game turns expensive. The young woman knows more than Ethan thinks, and the elite attorney hired to tear apart Claire's finances is Adrian Shaw, the broke student Claire once deceived, desired, and abandoned with two million dollars. To survive the divorce, Claire must outplay a husband who wants devotion without sacrifice, face the man who once offered her everything he had, and decide whether money can still buy the only thing she actually regrets losing.

My husband, Ethan Cole, had found a young woman to play poor with. He shared her rented apartment, wore matching outfits bought on clearance, and hunted down takeout deals. He called it getting back to his roots.

We'd had even less when we started out. A leaking basement. Cheap noodles because delivery cost too much. Now that we were rich, he missed being broke.

"It's just for fun. We're not sleeping together," he told me. "When I get bored, I'll give her two hundred thousand dollars to move on. You won't have to deal with her."

I didn't cry. I didn't throw anything.

After a moment, I asked, "Two hundred thousand? Isn't that a little cheap?"

Years earlier, I'd played the same game with a broke young man.

When I left him, I'd paid two million.

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"It's plenty."

Ethan raised an eyebrow through the cigar smoke. Apparently, of all the objections he'd expected from his wife, that hadn't made the list.

He crossed his legs and settled back in his chair.

"Business isn't what it used to be. Money's harder to make these days. Two hundred thousand isn't pocket change, even for us."

He said this from a leather chair that had arrived from Italy in its own climate-controlled crate. I remembered the invoice because I remembered every invoice. Romance had never improved my memory, but six figures followed me into dreams.

"Then perhaps sell the chair," I said.

Ethan glanced down, as if noticing it for the first time. "You're missing the point."

"No. I'm pricing it. That's how I find points."

His mouth twitched. Years ago, that answer would have made him laugh. Now he studied me as if I were a balance sheet with a suspicious line item.

I looked at the cigar between his fingers. A few thousand dollars, going up in smoke. His watch had cost three million. The last time he'd taken an interest in ceramics, he'd spent half a million on a cup.

But yes. Times were tough.

I'd seen them grocery shopping together once. The young woman wore a cheap online dress and held his arm, laughing up at him. He leaned close to hear her, and they walked away without noticing me.

For a moment, watching their backs, I saw Ethan and me when we'd first graduated.

We'd put our meager savings into a business idea. At our lowest point, we could afford one chicken sandwich between us. I ate the chicken. He ate the bun.

That arrangement had been my idea. Ethan needed the protein less, I had argued, because his job was to charm investors and mine was to keep the prototype from collapsing. He'd called that bad science and handed me the chicken anyway. We had sat on the basement floor with our backs against a damp wall, chewing in silence while rain tapped through a crack into a cooking pot.

Whenever the drip grew faster, Ethan moved the pot. Whenever I started calculating how many meals our remaining cash could buy, he opened his laptop and showed me another projection. The numbers were optimistic to the point of religion. I didn't believe in religion, but I believed in his ability to make strangers sign checks.

Under a bare bulb in our basement apartment, we lay on a folding cot and planned the next ten years. Find investors. Land contracts. Make money. Build a company worth something.

When we made our first million, we'd get married.

I put my arms around his neck. "Men get rich and start cheating."

He immediately began to swear that if he ever touched another woman, he deserved to spend the rest of his life broke.

I stopped him.

"Given the choice, I'd rather you were rich and kept a mistress. Several, even."

He stared at me. Then his expression softened.

"You really love me that much?"

I tucked my chin into his shoulder. I didn't trust myself to comment on his comprehension skills.

The truth was, I'd had enough of half a sandwich. I'd had enough of the basement. Every morning I fought my way onto a packed commuter train and spent the ride pressed into somebody else's armpit.

If he didn't make money soon, I was leaving.

So I prayed.

Please, God. Let us get rich. I'll do my part. I'll eat steak, remember my vegetables, and never complain about a full bank account. If that's the deal, Ethan can keep all the pretty women he wants.

God must have tuned in late that night.

He caught the part about the women.

For years, that joke had felt like one of our private artifacts, as worthless and precious as the bent spoon we used to share instant noodles. Sitting across from him now, I realized Ethan had treated it like a notarized amendment to our vows.

I could hardly blame the legal system for that. Even lawyers expected both parties to understand the contract.