Husband Dead, Millions in Hand...But Wait—He'd Loved Me a Decade! - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
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I hit up the one place James absolutely hated me going—this trashy, ear-splitting nightclub.
VIP section? Mine. Top-shelf bottles? Flowing. Cage fights? Front row.
Let's be real: James was never my type.
Too bookish, too delicate.
He would get all flushed and wheezy after like ten minutes of activity.
I've always had a thing for those golden-boy athletic types.
Lost count of how many times I'd clown him:
"James, you seriously need to hit the gym if you want to live past fifty."
"You want me around that long?" he'd ask.
"Well, yeah. Can't let my walking ATM disappeared too soon."
Something flickered in those pretty eyes of his when I'd say that—half-resigned, half-relieved.
Later, he started tagging along for my runs and gym sessions.
But no matter what, he stayed paper-thin. Nothing stuck to his frame.
Now I get it. Cancer was probably already feasting on him from the inside.
"Hey beauty, bored over here? I can fix that."
The cage fighter who'd just KO'd his opponent materialized at my table, all gleaming muscles and testosterone.
I mentally hit delete on James's memory file.
He's gone. I'm free. No more playing perfect wife.
Time to go wild.
I flashed a smile, downed my drink, the burn hitting my throat right as a chorus of wolf whistles erupted around us.
Noise. Chaos. Sleaze—This was my world.
Dark, crude, familiar.
Buzzed and bold, I pulled Mr. Muscles down beside me.
"Cut the crap. What's your hourly rate?"
His greedy eyes lit up, but he played it cool.
"Come on, I like you. This isn't about money."
Like?
This word killed my buzz instantly.
Because I know better. Nobody's ever genuinely "like" me.
Mom bailed when poverty got too real.
Her goodbye was all tears and promises: "Olivia, once Mommy gets some money, I'll come back for you."
But she never did.
Dad poured all his bitterness straight into me after that.
He rented me out to underground fighting clubs.
"My girl's tough as nails," he'd brag.
"Worth every dollar—hits just bounce off her!"
I became everyone's punching bag.
Two hundred bucks a session.
During that time, my body was a walking bruise gallery.
Dad only acknowledged my existence when payday came around—maybe toss me a cupcake if I'd been "productive."
Lesson learned early: Dad didn't love me. He only loved what I could earn him.
Want Daddy's attention? Better start bringing home serious bank.
After marrying James, he was so generous it freaked me out.
So I tested him.
"James, you throw all this money at me—are you trying to buy my love or something?"
He just ruffled my hair and said, "Olivia, remember this—love isn't something you buy."
I stared into those clear eyes and mumbled, "Got it."
Reality check: James don't want my love.
He was always so damn gentle, never directly saying no, only softly reject my like that.
I should've known better.
Who would want the affection of garbage like me?
By eighteen, I'd grown into my looks.
Suddenly the fighters weren't just using me as practice anymore...
Hungry stares.
"Accidental" touches.
Disgusting propositions.
I begged Dad to get me out. He just counted his cash, eyes gleaming.
When I tried escaping, the gym owner caught me—lunging at me with that predatory look in his eyes.
VIP section? Mine. Top-shelf bottles? Flowing. Cage fights? Front row.
Let's be real: James was never my type.
Too bookish, too delicate.
He would get all flushed and wheezy after like ten minutes of activity.
I've always had a thing for those golden-boy athletic types.
Lost count of how many times I'd clown him:
"James, you seriously need to hit the gym if you want to live past fifty."
"You want me around that long?" he'd ask.
"Well, yeah. Can't let my walking ATM disappeared too soon."
Something flickered in those pretty eyes of his when I'd say that—half-resigned, half-relieved.
Later, he started tagging along for my runs and gym sessions.
But no matter what, he stayed paper-thin. Nothing stuck to his frame.
Now I get it. Cancer was probably already feasting on him from the inside.
"Hey beauty, bored over here? I can fix that."
The cage fighter who'd just KO'd his opponent materialized at my table, all gleaming muscles and testosterone.
I mentally hit delete on James's memory file.
He's gone. I'm free. No more playing perfect wife.
Time to go wild.
I flashed a smile, downed my drink, the burn hitting my throat right as a chorus of wolf whistles erupted around us.
Noise. Chaos. Sleaze—This was my world.
Dark, crude, familiar.
Buzzed and bold, I pulled Mr. Muscles down beside me.
"Cut the crap. What's your hourly rate?"
His greedy eyes lit up, but he played it cool.
"Come on, I like you. This isn't about money."
Like?
This word killed my buzz instantly.
Because I know better. Nobody's ever genuinely "like" me.
Mom bailed when poverty got too real.
Her goodbye was all tears and promises: "Olivia, once Mommy gets some money, I'll come back for you."
But she never did.
Dad poured all his bitterness straight into me after that.
He rented me out to underground fighting clubs.
"My girl's tough as nails," he'd brag.
"Worth every dollar—hits just bounce off her!"
I became everyone's punching bag.
Two hundred bucks a session.
During that time, my body was a walking bruise gallery.
Dad only acknowledged my existence when payday came around—maybe toss me a cupcake if I'd been "productive."
Lesson learned early: Dad didn't love me. He only loved what I could earn him.
Want Daddy's attention? Better start bringing home serious bank.
After marrying James, he was so generous it freaked me out.
So I tested him.
"James, you throw all this money at me—are you trying to buy my love or something?"
He just ruffled my hair and said, "Olivia, remember this—love isn't something you buy."
I stared into those clear eyes and mumbled, "Got it."
Reality check: James don't want my love.
He was always so damn gentle, never directly saying no, only softly reject my like that.
I should've known better.
Who would want the affection of garbage like me?
By eighteen, I'd grown into my looks.
Suddenly the fighters weren't just using me as practice anymore...
Hungry stares.
"Accidental" touches.
Disgusting propositions.
I begged Dad to get me out. He just counted his cash, eyes gleaming.
When I tried escaping, the gym owner caught me—lunging at me with that predatory look in his eyes.
End of Husband Dead, Millions in Hand...But Wait—He'd Loved Me a Decade! Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to Husband Dead, Millions in Hand...But Wait—He'd Loved Me a Decade! book page.