Money.
Planning for the future.
Those conversations were normal.
Then my health began to deteriorate.
Every morning brought stomach pain.
Nausea arrived without explanation.
My wedding ring became loose around my finger.
Dark strands of hair collected on my pillow until I sometimes stared at them before I could force myself to breathe.
Marcus always acted worried.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard, Victoria,” he would say while rubbing my back. “Chicago, Miami, Los Angeles. Nobody can maintain that pace forever.”
He sounded caring.
That was why the deception worked.
But I owned three boutique hotels in Chicago, two in Miami, and one in Los Angeles.
I understood figures.
I understood patterns.
And every pattern led back to Marcus.
The meals he prepared.
The drinks he placed in my hand.
His sudden curiosity about my schedule.
The way my sister Sophia kept visiting whenever I was away.
Sophia had always smiled too tightly whenever someone praised me. Growing up on the South Side, she resented every award I won, every teacher who called me talented, and every success that came after I turned a modest loan into a company worth millions.
