Chapter 7: Confrontation and Accusation

“Marcus, did you blacklist me? You won’t let me work?”

My voice shook as I confronted him, desperation bleeding into anger. My hands balled into fists at my sides.

He stood, fists clenched at his sides, jaw working like he was chewing on glass. “Natalie, drop the act. Isn’t this what you wanted? To live an easy life as Mrs. Ellison?”

His words dripped with contempt, twisting everything I’d ever said or done.

I was confused. “What do you mean?”

I genuinely didn’t recognize the person he thought I was. The chasm between us felt insurmountable.

“After we got our marriage license, you went out to eat with your friend. When I went to pick you up, I overheard your conversation.”

His tone was icy, measured. He recited every word like evidence in a trial.

He repeated what he’d heard word for word:

“Your friend said you were lucky, that you landed a golden bachelor, and that after you divorce you’ll get a big settlement—or at least a payout during the marriage to support her. You didn’t deny it, and even said ‘okay’.”

“Natalie, you married me for my money, didn’t you? You want something out of me? No wonder you reacted so strongly to the prenup.”

I was shocked he’d believe such a joke between friends.

We’d been teasing, laughing after too much wine at a downtown bistro. I never thought he’d take it seriously.

“Marcus, we were just joking.”

But he wouldn’t listen.

His eyes were hard, unyielding. There was no room for humor—or for the truth.

“Natalie, we’re married, there’s no prenup, you got what you wanted. Anyway, you just want to be a rich wife—why bother pretending to want a job?”

I couldn’t take it anymore.

My heart felt bruised, raw from the constant blows. I couldn’t breathe in this gilded cage any longer.

“Marcus, let’s get divorced. Since you think I’m after your money, I’ll leave with nothing. I’ll sign an agreement not to take a cent—will that satisfy you?”

He just glanced at me coldly. “Can’t wait to get divorced already? You didn’t sign a prenup, but want to leave with nothing—what will people think of the Ellison family? Or is this part of your plan too—pretending to leave with nothing so we’ll pay you to keep quiet?”

“Natalie, I won’t divorce you. Give up.”

For a moment, I felt lost.

The room spun, the floor dropped away. Was this really the man I’d spent three years with?

Was this really the man I’d shared midnight pizza and final exam panic with?

“Marcus, let’s divorce. I’ll leave with nothing, I don’t need any compensation. We’ve known each other three years—don’t you trust me even that much?”

My voice was small, broken. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sounded so defeated.

His hand holding the pen trembled slightly.

He hesitated, just for a moment. A flicker of the old Marcus, before he buried it under suspicion.

“I said, I won’t agree to a divorce. I used to think I could trust you, but it turns out you planned all this from the start.”

After that, our relationship froze. Not only did he refuse to let me work, he only gave me $150 a month.

He said, “You don’t pay rent, there’s a maid for everything—$150 is enough.”

He made it sound like a favor, not a punishment. The house felt bigger and colder than ever.

From then on, I was Mrs. Ellison in name only.

Just the title—nothing else.

I went through the motions: showing up to charity galas, smiling for the cameras, but inside, I was numb.