Chapter 1: Bought Love, Broken Lives

My wife developed postpartum depression and told me flat out—she could only feel my love if I spent more money on her.

Sometimes I’d catch her scrolling through influencer feeds, sighing over the latest trends. She’d say, “Ethan, you just don’t get it. When you spend big on me, I actually feel seen.” The words stung. Still, I nodded—what else could I do?—and promised I’d find a way.

A manicure cost ten grand. Yeah, you heard that right.

Not some regular polish at the strip mall, either—she wanted the full spa treatment: OPI gels, Swarovski crystals, the works. She’d flash her fingers in the light, watching them sparkle, barely glancing at me.

A designer handbag cost a hundred thousand. (No, really. I checked the receipt.)

It wasn’t even about the bag. It was about what it said to the world—that she mattered, that someone loved her enough to splurge. She’d parade it through the mall, chin high. Like she was on a runway or something.

To scrape together the money, I pinched every penny, worked double shifts at the auto shop by day, and fought in those grimy underground boxing matches—the kind nobody talks about—at night to pay off our debts.

Every morning, my hands would ache from changing tires, and by nightfall, my knuckles would be raw and bleeding. The stink of gasoline clung to me no matter how hard I scrubbed. Didn’t matter. I kept going. It was for my family. For Savannah. For Mason.

My six-year-old, Mason, started collecting cans and bottles. Every time he found one, you’d think he’d won the lottery.

He’d scamper through the neighborhood in his light-up sneakers, stuffing bottles into a battered backpack. Sometimes, he’d tug on my sleeve, grinning—"Look, Dad! That’s five more cents!" It broke my heart. Still, I ruffled his hair and told him he was doing great.

"Dad, I’m saving up to buy Mom a gold bracelet." He looked up at me, hopeful. "Will that make her a little happier?"

He’d hold up a crumpled dollar bill, eyes shining with hope. The innocence in his voice nearly undid me every time.

He’d say it so quietly, like a wish he didn’t dare to believe. I’d try to smile and say, “Maybe, buddy. Maybe.” But deep down, I wasn’t sure anymore.

My wife hid behind her illness, staying cold and distant from us.

She’d lock herself in the bedroom for hours, curtains drawn, scrolling on her phone. If Mason knocked, she’d snap, “Not now, honey. Mommy’s not feeling well.” I’d stand outside, listening. Told myself it was the depression talking. But sometimes, her gaze was just...empty.

To cover her expensive therapy bills, I even signed a joke of a waiver—it meant every time I stepped in the ring, I was risking my life.

The contract was a joke—no insurance, no guarantees. Just a handshake and a grim nod from the bookie. But the payout was enough to cover one more session, one more bottle of pills. I told myself it was worth it.

One night, I got beaten so bad my ribs were all but shattered. I could barely breathe.

I remember the taste of blood in my mouth, the roar of the crowd, the way my vision blurred. Just keep standing, I told myself, thinking of Mason’s face.

Then, out of the crowd, I saw someone I knew.

At first, I thought I was seeing things. But there she was—Savannah. Not alone, either.

My wife, Savannah, nestled in Tyler Monroe’s arms, laughing at something he said.

Tyler Monroe—slick hair, expensive watch, a smirk that made my skin crawl. Of course. Savannah laughed, brushing her hair behind her ear, her hand resting on his chest.

“Why’d you bring me to a place like this? It’s so scary!”

She giggled, pressing close, voice syrupy. Tyler just grinned, tightening his arm around her waist.

“Oh well, as long as I’m with you, I’m happy.” She leaned in, eyes sparkling. Didn’t even glance my way.

Then she turned. Looked right at me—bloodied, filthy, sprawled on the ground. Her face full of disdain.

Her lip curled, sneering. “He’s pathetic. Add another ten grand to the bet and tell him to get up and put on a show! Don’t ruin our fun!”

Her words cut deeper than any punch. I stared up at her, barely able to breathe.

That’s when it hit me. She’d been pretending all along. Broke, depressed—it was all a lie. She loved someone else.

It all clicked. The coldness, the endless spending, the way she flinched from Mason’s hugs. She’d never been mine—not really. I felt hollow.

Didn’t matter what my son or I did. She’d never be satisfied.

I thought of Mason’s hopeful eyes, his little hands clutching empty bottles. None of it mattered.

Lying on the ground, feeling my life slip away. My only consolation? I’d die soon. She wouldn’t have to waste any more effort lying to me.

A strange calm settled over me. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the only way out. For her. For me. For Mason. At least I wouldn’t have to keep pretending.