Too Late To Love Your Bought Groom

The day we were supposed to be married, I hiked the price. I was scrambling to cover my mother’s emergency surgery, and I knew exactly how much cash I needed, how quickly. I walked into the ballroom and changed the pre-nuptial payout from eighty-eight thousand dollars to two hundred and eighty thousand. Alma Sinclair adjusted to the sudden, mercenary shift with unsettling composure. She had her assistant draw up the new papers without a word. But as we were walking to the bridal limo, her lips brushed my ear, and she delivered two light, poisonous words: “Gold Digger.” From that moment on, she ran wild, and I became the Kept Man, the Marked Man who’d sold himself for a number. Three years later, on our anniversary, I was in a hospital emergency room, stomach lining burned raw with gastritis, and I couldn’t even cover the co-pay. I stared at the bill for one hundred and fifty-two dollars, my palms sweating. Meanwhile, a thousand miles away in Alistair Harbor, Alma was high-profile, throwing a lavish, spectacular fireworks show over the ocean for her newest fixation. I looked at the number on the bill, then back at my dead phone. I called her. “Alma, we need to get a divorce.” “What is it now, Nolan? How much money do you want this time?”

1 “Fifty thousand?” “A hundred?” “Or are we up to one-fifty now?” Her voice was an idle, dismissive scoff coming through the phone. I hadn’t even answered when a sharp, clear laugh cut in. “Alma, darling, you randomly donated half a million to a panhandler yesterday. Why are you so cheap with your husband?” “Because,” Alma paused, a cold sneer entering her voice, “some people are only worth the price I stamped on them.” Her words weren’t a slap. They were a surgical blade, precisely aimed at my heart. Ever since I’d changed the terms of the prenup, the love in her eyes had been replaced by a deep, constant scorn. I knew I was in the wrong, and I spent the first year trying desperately to earn back her respect. It was useless. I cooked her favorite dinner. She would look at the plate and mock, “How much did this meal cost? Put a price tag on it so I can decide if I can afford to eat your kindness.” Even intimacy was transactional. “How much for tonight? Tell me the number.” I tried countless times to explain. I told her the truth: My mother had suffered a sudden, catastrophic cerebral hemorrhage on our wedding day. The hospital wouldn’t move her into surgery without a payment, and the money had to be wired now. I hadn’t wanted to risk waiting another second, so I had blurted out the revised number. She never believed me. From her privileged height, she would look down and coldly sneer. “You’d use your own mother’s life as a lie just for cash? Nolan Blackwood, I didn’t realize how truly toxic you were.” Thinking of everything she’d said, I focused on the sound of the relentless, explosive fireworks crackling in the background. “I don’t want your money,” I said flatly. “I just want the divorce. When are you coming back? We’ll go to the courthouse.” She still thought it was a pathetic, attention-seeking power play. The familiar, bitter contempt flooded my ears. “Nolan, you’d give up the Sinclair wealth? You’d give up this life? Prove it. Hand back every penny of the payout. Let me see your conviction.” Then she hung up. Her words echoed in the sterile hallway. Hand back every penny. Everyone said I’d hit the lottery when I married Alma Sinclair, that I was the sparrow who flew onto the highest branch—the son-in-law to a dynasty, guaranteed a life of endless luxury. What no one knew was that since the wedding, Alma hadn’t given me a dime. My former company, fearing a conflict with the powerful Sinclairs, had found an excuse to let me go. Every company I interviewed with afterwards rejected me for the same veiled reason. For three years, every dollar I’d spent was from my savings. Those savings had been long drained, first by my mother’s long-term care and then by basic living expenses. Now, I didn’t even have a hundred dollars left. How was I supposed to come up with two hundred and eighty thousand dollars to pay her back? I stood frozen, the hospital co-pay slip clammy in my numb hand. Nearby, a group of nurses was watching the live-stream of Alma’s celebration. One sighed in awe. “Oh my God, look at the way Ms. Sinclair is looking at her boyfriend. She’s completely smitten. The female CEO straight out of a romance novel!” “I know! It’s his birthday, and he casually mentioned he wanted a big fireworks display. She just dropped a million to make it happen. So jealous.” “Wait, I heard Ms. Sinclair is married…” “Who cares? Elite families have a husband on one arm and a lover on the other. It’s normal. Besides, her husband is just a kept man. Guys like that only care about the money; they don’t care how many lovers she has.”

2 Our story had once been a true fairy tale. Alma was the eldest daughter and sole heir of the illustrious Sinclair family. I was from a humble background, with a mom who was chronically ill and dependent on me. Early on, I confessed everything to Alma. I expected her to do what everyone else did: hear about my sick mother and retreat. But she didn’t. She looked at me with tender pity, holding my hand, her voice trembling. “You’ve carried so much for so long, haven’t you? From now on, I’ll carry it with you.” She told me: Nolan, no matter where you go or what you do, never forget that you have me behind you. Back then, everyone, including me, believed I had found my life’s great fortune in Alma Sinclair. No one could have predicted that the wedding I’d looked forward to would not only brand me a gold digger but completely extinguish her love for me. I still remember, after receiving the wire transfer, I rushed to pay the surgery deposit. The chief surgeon, his urgency suddenly gone, pulled me aside. “Mr. Blackwood, your mother is fine. Everything was a test from Mrs. Sinclair to see if you were worthy of the family. She instructed me to tell you that she wasn’t entirely satisfied with your performance. You have work to do if you want to keep your title.” “Also, Mrs. Sinclair is arranging a top medical team for your mother, but on one condition: you must never tell your wife the truth.” Terrified by the Sinclairs’ power and fearing for my mother’s life, I took the secret to heart. No matter how Alma misunderstood me, no matter how cruel she became, I never told her the truth. But when I realized she was cheating, when a beautiful, bright-eyed man became a constant shadow, I finally lost it. I grabbed her shirt, sobbing uncontrollably. Again and again, I begged in a broken voice, “Alma, please, I’m begging you, stop doing this to me!” Her face was a mask of cold stone. She harshly pried my hands away. Every word was a knife. “Nolan Blackwood, the day you jacked up the price and trampled the Sinclair name into the dirt, you died to me. Now, you’re just a woman I bought. You have no right to make demands.” After that, she grew bolder. The lovers changed like the seasons. The bottle of sleeping pills in my nightstand emptied faster than I could replace it. Now, without cash for the ER prescription, I could only turn around and head home. When I reached the sprawling estate, the gates were locked and the villa was dark. Wincing as the pain flared in my gut, I pressed the intercom. “Mrs. Gable? Are you there? Could you please open the gate?” I gritted my teeth and called out. The manager’s cold, unforgiving voice came over the speaker. “Ms. Sinclair set a new curfew. No entry or exit after 10:00 PM. That includes you, Mr. Blackwood. It is 10:01. Please do not make this difficult.”

3 I felt the meager seventy dollars in my pocket and was hit by a wave of desolate grief. I slowly slid down onto the cold marble steps of the gate, clutching my stomach. I hugged myself tight, trying to find a scrap of warmth. The memory surfaced: my junior year in college. I was working a late-night shift and missed my dorm curfew. I didn’t know what to do. Alma had appeared like an angel. She brought me here, to this house, and softly told me, “Nolan, the door here will always be open to you. This is your home. This is where you belong.” Now, looking at the place I’d once called home, I felt utterly adrift. I sat on the steps all night. When Mrs. Gable, the kind housekeeper, finally woke up and opened the gates, my limbs were stiff and numb. “Mr. Blackwood, why didn’t you find a place to stay? Get inside, quick, before you catch your death.” She anxiously helped me up. When her hand touched my ice-cold skin, a spasm of sympathy crossed her face. She didn’t say another word, hurrying to the kitchen to make me ginger tea. In these three years, whenever I was scorned or insulted, Mrs. Gable was the only one who believed me. “You are not a greedy man, Mr. Blackwood,” she’d told me once. “You must have had a reason. I believe you.” Even though she’d only met me a few times before the wedding, she chose to believe me. But Alma Sinclair, the woman who swore she loved me, still refused to. How laughable. After the tea and a light breakfast, I went up to my room to wash up. Just as I was about to collapse onto the bed, I heard men’s flattering voices and a woman’s playful, complaining whine from the hallway. “It’s your fault, you were so insatiable last night, keeping me up. My back is killing me.” “My bad. Want me to rub it?” Alma’s familiar, light, and melodic voice drifted through the door. It was slightly husky but laced with amusement. Alma’s laughter. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard her laugh like that for me. My eyes fell on the finished divorce papers lying on my nightstand. I flipped myself up, grabbed the papers, and walked out. I walked straight into Alma and her newest lover, Devon Reid, mid-passionate kiss in the hall. His hand was resting intimately on her thigh. My throat was dry. I cleared it softly. “Excuse me. Could I interrupt for a minute?” Alma’s tender expression immediately hardened to an icy glare when it landed on me. Devon stood next to her, puffing out his chest, the delicate skin of his neck covered in fresh, unmistakable love bites. “Nolan, you’re home? I thought you missed curfew last night and had to crash somewhere else.” I ignored his snide provocation and walked towards Alma. “Here’s the divorce agreement. I will pay back the money I owe you, every last cent. I won’t short you.” “Pay it back? You don’t even have a job. What are you going to use?” Alma’s lips curved into a faint smile, but there was no warmth in her eyes. She knew. She knew I had no income, no employment for three years. I suppressed the turmoil inside me. “How I pay it back is my business. You don’t need to worry about it.” Before Alma could respond, Devon snatched the papers from my hand and glanced at them. He burst out laughing. “Oh my God, look at all the typos in this agreement. Nolan, who was your lawyer? This is so unprofessional.”

4 I hadn’t had the money to hire a lawyer. I had drafted the divorce agreement on the cold front steps last night, painstakingly copying a template I’d found online. “Nolan Blackwood, are you done with this childish drama? Do you think filing for divorce is a new way to get my attention? Stop with your pathetic little tricks.” Alma’s eyes were full of contempt and disgust. She didn’t give me a chance to speak further. She dropped the papers, took Devon’s hand, and walked into her bedroom. It was just like our wedding night, when I’d desperately begged her to stay, and she’d walked straight into the study without a backward glance. I was once again shut out. But this time, I didn’t knock. I went back to my room. The next day, I started looking for work again. This time, I didn’t send my resume to corporate offices. I chose the best-paying hotel cleaning job I could find. As a cleaner, no one ran a background check. Here, no one knew my name. No one would call me a gold digger. Two weeks later, my supervisor directed me to clean Suite 305. The moment I pushed the door open, I froze. “Well, look who it is. Isn’t this Ms. Sinclair’s husband? Do you think our CEO isn’t making enough money, so you have to work here as a janitor?” “The Sinclairs have generations of wealth. If that can’t satisfy his endless greed, imagine what he’d do to an average person.” “That’s why you marry a real man. A decent, stand-up guy like Devon is the only one worthy of the Sinclair name.” The guests in the box suite mocked me openly. Alma, who was seated at the head of the table, didn’t seem surprised to see me. She calmly played with Devon’s hand, acting as if I didn’t exist. Devon’s eyes glinted with triumph. “Nolan, I heard you were working here, but I didn’t believe it. Are you that desperate for cash? You should have just asked. I can help you out.” He grandly pulled out the secondary credit card Alma had given him. “Bro,” he said, with a playful, cruel grin. “Alma always says you shouldn’t get something for nothing. Let’s play a game. You drink a shot, and I give you ten thousand dollars. Fair?” Ten thousand dollars a shot. If I drank twenty-eight shots, I could raise the two hundred and eighty thousand dollars I needed to pay her back. Then I could leave. “Fine,” I said, agreeing without hesitation. “Deal.” Alma’s body stiffened slightly. She finally lifted her head to look at me, and her eyes were ablaze with fury. “You really are a piece of work, aren’t you, Nolan? That low for cash? Does that mean you’ll agree to anything I offer?” She scoffed, pulling a neatly folded divorce agreement from her jacket pocket. “You want the divorce? You spend one night satisfying them, and I’ll sign.” The words landed, and the eyes of the men sitting in the room turned predatory. My face went white as I looked at the greedy, lustful men. I was about to refuse, but Alma had already pulled out a pen and scrawled her signature on the paper. She threw it at me. “Nolan Blackwood, if you want this divorce, prove your commitment.” She didn’t look back. She took Devon’s hand and strode out of the suite. The sticky, hungry stares from the men behind me made my body shake uncontrollably. “Alma, you can’t do this to me…” I lunged towards the door, but a powerful arm grabbed me and violently yanked me back. The door slammed shut. The last sliver of hallway light vanished. Despair, like a surging tide, drowned me. I had no fight left. The next morning, Alma’s assistant knocked on her door early. Alma’s clear, cold face showed a hint of mockery when she saw him. “Did he call you for help last night? I knew the divorce was just a manipulation…” Just then, the living room TV cut to a breaking news alert. “Last night at 10:15 PM, at the Cloud Haven Hotel, a male victim surnamed Blackwood was assaulted and tragically killed…”