Chapter 1: The Cost of Being Young

Three years married to Lucas Reed, and I can still feel the weight of my wedding band—cool, heavy, a constant reminder pressing into my skin as I twist it out of habit. Sometimes, I catch myself fiddling with it, almost like I’m trying to remember what it once meant.

Lucas walks into a room and everyone notices. He’s got that self-assured stride, like he owns every space he steps into. I used to admire that confidence—sometimes, I still do.

I’m not even twenty-one yet. Just a college senior, still figuring out what I want from life.

Most of my friends are worrying about spring break or landing the right internship. Meanwhile, I’ve got a mortgage and people always mistake me for Lucas’s assistant, not his wife.

I’m still not sure if I’m cut out for the whole housewife thing.

I picture lazy Saturday mornings, the smell of pancakes and coffee drifting through the apartment, freedom to choose my own path—but all that feels far away, like someone else’s dream.

Then, I overheard Lucas chatting with a group of industry big shots.

They were huddled around a private booth at a steakhouse downtown. The air was thick with the smell of sizzling steak, whiskey glasses clinking, the low jazz barely audible above the hum of Chicago’s city lights gleaming through the windows.

"Grace Summers is good for nothing except being young. Compared to her, she’s not as sharp as Morgan Blake."

His voice was casual, offhand. The words stung—maybe I’d heard worse, but hearing my name like that, tossed around like I was a commodity, made my skin crawl.

"Honestly, I’m starting to regret getting married. How much does it cost to keep a young girl? Now, if I get divorced, the loss is too big."

They all laughed, that easy laughter of men convinced they’ll never be caught. My whole body went cold, like someone poured ice water down my back.

I turned and, after a moment’s hesitation, steadied my hand and handed him the divorce papers.

I’d kept that envelope in my purse for a week—just in case. As I pulled it out, my heart thudded so hard I had to take a shaky breath. I slid the papers across the table. The laughter stopped, the steakhouse suddenly shrinking around us.

When he saw the line—‘I’ll leave with nothing’—he let out a long, relieved sigh.

He looked up, disbelief and relief flickering across his face, like he’d just won a game he didn’t realize he was playing.

Feigning generosity, he said, "How about I wire you three million? Consider it a parting gift."

His tone was all surface-level courtesy, like a boss offering severance. He probably thought he was being noble, some modern-day gentleman.

I just smiled. "I’m still young. I can afford to start over."

I kept my eyes locked on his, steady as ever, even though my hands trembled in my lap. My last bit of pride, right there in my words.

He never realized—my brother is basically the king of the Chicago social scene, the guy who makes things happen in this city. Lucas only got into those exclusive circles because of my brother’s quiet influence.

Back in college, my brother’s name opened more doors than any golden key. Every big client Lucas landed, every gala invitation—my brother was behind the scenes, pulling strings.

Divorcing me? Lucas’s real losses were just beginning.

I almost pitied him, watching him calculate his escape, clueless about the storm about to hit.