Chapter 2: Secrets and Allowances

I had just come back from shopping.

The air outside still clung to me, crisp and laced with the scent of fresh rain on pavement. I kicked off my shoes in the foyer, the marble cool beneath my feet, and the house was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge.

As soon as I walked in, I saw Marcus sitting on the sofa.

He sat there like a statue, one leg crossed over the other, tie loosened, eyes fixed on something invisible. The TV played in the background, but he wasn’t really watching.

He looked up at me. “Where did you go?”

His voice was flat, almost rehearsed, as if he already knew the answer and just wanted to catch me in a lie.

I shook the shopping bag in my hand. “Shopping. Bought a few things.”

I swung the bag for emphasis, trying to inject some normalcy into our exchange. The logo gleamed under the hallway light.

He frowned. “Shopping again? The housekeeper said you just bought a ton of new clothes and a couple of candles I didn’t need yesterday.”

I could practically hear Mrs. Martinez’s voice in the background—always quick to report back, always loyal to Marcus.

“I see what Derek and the others said is true—you really are materialistic, obsessed with money…"

His words hung in the air, sour and heavy. You’d think after all this time he’d try something more original.

He suddenly stopped, his eyes landing on the Guno bag I was carrying.

The recognition flashed across his face—he knew exactly how much that bag cost. More than a month’s rent on most apartments in town.

That’s a high-end luxury brand; any single item costs over a thousand dollars.

I didn’t need to tell him. The gold lettering on the bag said it all.

“Natalie, you actually bought a Guno bag? Where did you get the money for that?”

His tone sharpened, suspicion etched into every syllable.

I blinked innocently. “Honey, from the money you give me every month.”

I widened my eyes just enough, channeling every clueless sitcom wife who ever lived.

He got angry. “Don’t I know how much I give you? $150 a month—what can you do with that?”

He was practically shouting now, face flushed, the kind of anger that comes from being out of control.

I looked at him. “But didn’t you say before that $150 a month was enough?”

“If you think $150 is too little, why did you just accuse me of being materialistic?”

My words came out calm and even, but inside, my hands were shaking just a bit. There was nothing left to say that could make this make sense.

Marcus realized he’d contradicted himself and was momentarily speechless.

He opened and closed his mouth like he wanted to keep fighting, but the logic tripped him up. I could see the frustration knotting his jaw.

Just then, his phone buzzed.

The shrill sound broke the tension, and he snatched it up like a lifeline, his eyes darting between me and the glowing screen.

He glanced at me, hurriedly answered, and walked out.

He moved fast—almost running from the conversation, as if distance would save him from his own mess.

I went back to my room.

My sanctuary—four walls, a soft bed, and a window that looked out over the maple trees. I shut the door, pressing my back to it, letting the adrenaline drain from my body.

Marcus’s good friend Derek messaged me:

[Natalie, did you like what you bought today?]

[Do you still have enough money?]

His messages always had this casual confidence, like he was checking in on a close business associate—not the wife of his friend.

Before I could reply, Derek quickly deleted the message: [Do you still have enough money?]

I smirked. Even the richest men get nervous sometimes. He didn’t want a digital trail, didn’t want Marcus to see anything he shouldn’t.

The next second, my bank app pinged: $300,000 deposited.

That’s right.

A real man never asks a woman if she has enough money—he just sends it.

It was almost poetic, the way the notification chimed—cold, clean, impersonal. It felt like a private joke between us, one Marcus would never get.

In this respect, Marcus’s friends are far more generous than he is.

My thumb hovered over the app—part of me wanted to throw the phone across the room, the other part wanted to see how far the money would stretch.

I looked at the ceiling, thinking how strange it is: the men who distrust women the most are always the first to try and buy their affection.