Love Fades, Money Doesn’t

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When the Century Club scandal broke, all of Port Sterling expected me, Avery Collins, to be humiliated. Scarlett, the impostor raised by Tristans family, rushed to declare herself the hundredth conquest, urging me to divorce him. Whispers of schadenfreude were everywhere. Just a day earlier, Id been managing Tristans PR, and now I was the jokeno, the punchline.

Tristan had the nerve to taunt me, smirking, "My sister is far better in bed than you, Avery. Youre like a corpse." I didnt react. Instead, I pulled out my phone, showed a QR code, and stated calmly, "Our deal: 0-000,000 per person. One hundred people. Thats ten million dollars."

Five years of marriage taught me: love fades, money doesnt. Tristan laughed dismissively, "You love me, Avery. Just fix this." I almost laughed. Ridiculous? I had the full list. Scarletts confession was one thing, but the other ninety-nine? They included wives of the citys most powerful men. Releasing even a few names would destroy him. This time, he was finished.

...

Seeing my unwavering silence, Tristan's smirk faltered, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Are you serious?"

I just smiled and pushed my phone a little closer to him. The message was clear.

His face darkened. "I gave you five million three months ago," he bit out, "two million last month, and another three hundred thousand just two days ago."

He paused, his eyes locking onto my calm face, his voice tight with frustration. "Avery, when did you become such a gold digger? Sometimes I wonder if you ever loved me, or if it was always just my money."

I let out a soft sigh, a flicker of contempt in my eyes. How dare a serial cheater even speak the word love to me? This was the man who hadn't even come home on our wedding night, leaving me to face our empty bridal suite alone, the talk of the town.

I endured it, believing he would change.

But he only got worse, sleeping with the one person I despised most in the world: my so-called sister.

That was the day I broke. Id stormed in with a kitchen knife, ready to end them both. But security had me pinned to the ground in seconds. The only blood spilled was my own, from where the blade had sliced my hand.

A pool of crimson spread across the pristine floor.

Tristan showed no concern. He just threw money at the problem. A hundred thousand. A million. Ten million. Each payment wasn't just hush money; it was ironclad proof of every agonizing night I'd spent in this sham of a marriage.

So I learned my lesson. I stopped demanding his loyalty. As long as the money kept coming, it was enough. I even turned his philandering into a business. It was, in its own twisted way, exhilarating.

Before I could respond to his accusation, the door burst open. Scarlett rushed in, her eyes red, pointing an accusing finger at me.

"Sister, how can you be so petty at a time like this? Blackwood Industries' stock is plummeting! Can't you think about Tristan for once?"

Her voice was thick with righteous fury, as if I were the one who had committed some unforgivable crime. The irony was suffocating. She was the one whod drunkenly blabbed about his 'Century Club' to the press, and now she was here, moralizing, demanding I clean up her mess.

A wave of moved emotion washed over Tristan's face. He looked at me, his gaze hardening. "That's enough, Avery. Stop this nonsense. This is your duty as Mrs. Blackwood."

My tongue went numb. Duty. The word landed on me like a mountain, crushing the air from my lungs.

Years ago, when my family's company was on the brink of collapse, my parents married me off to him. They called it a strategic alliance. In reality, they sold me into servitude.

I was so naive back then. The first time I had to do PR for one of his affairs, I was carrying his child. Swollen with shame and fury, I screamed that I would rather die.

Tristan had just laughed, his voice cold as ice. "My family invested five hundred million into your father's company. What right do you have to refuse me? This is your duty as Mrs. Blackwood."

Terrified of angering him, my parents dragged me to the car. I fought them, thrashing wildly, until a brutal jolt to my belly sent me crumpling to the ground.

I lost the baby.

Tristan used my miscarriage as a PR tool, feeding a story to the ravenous media.

"Mrs. Blackwood, in her desperate rush to defend her husband, tragically suffered a miscarriage. The couples deep bond is undeniable, putting all vicious rumors to rest."

His crisis was averted. The price was my child.

A humorless smile touched my lips, but my eyes were cold. "Without the ten million, I'm not going on that stage. Whoever made the mess can clean it up."

The room fell into a dead silence.

Tristan's head snapped toward me, his eyes wide with disbelief. His friends, who had been lounging around, stared, dumbfounded.

"She really grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, didn't she?" one of them sneered, not bothering to lower his voice. "No class. Her husband's getting crucified out there, and she's trying to cut a deal."

"Her parents never should have taken her back," another added. "She's practically inhuman."

Tristan had never demanded respect for me, so his friends felt free to say whatever they wanted. Their words were like a blade scraping against bone, carving away at me piece by piece.

They all knew how much that old wound still bled.

I could have been brought home so much earlier.

When I was twelve, my real parents finally showed up at my foster home. But Scarlett, the girl they'd raised, grabbed a knife and pressed it to her own skin, screaming that if they took me, she would die right there.

They saw Scarlett's knife. They heard her empty threats. They saw the superficial scratch that barely broke the skin.

What they didn't see was me, thin as a reed, covered in bruises, tears streaming down my face.

They just shoved a wad of cash at my foster parents and offered me a hollow promise. "Just one more year, sweetheart. We'll come for you."

The moment their car was gone, my foster father kicked me to the ground, snatched the money, and told me to go slop the pigs.

So I gritted my teeth and waited a year.

Scarlett pulled the same stunt again. And again, I was left behind, discarded like an old toy. It went on like that, year after year, until I was eighteen. Only then did they finally pull me from that hell.

Scarlett had made her point. I was nothing.

Tristan knew all of this. He once held me and promised, "I'm here now. No one will ever hurt you again." His heart pounded like a war drum against my ear, and for a moment, I let myself believe him.

I'd bet on the wrong man.

"Sister, you just hate me, don't you?" Scarlett sobbed, her tears flowing freely. "I'll get on my knees, I'll do anything. Just help Tristan clear his name. You can kill me afterwards, I don't care." She produced a small penknife, theatrically pressing the tip to her throat.

"Scarlett!" Tristan lunged, snatching the knife from her hand. He turned to me, his eyes blazing with fury.

He took a deep, steadying breath, abandoning any hope of me attending the press conference. He put a protective arm around Scarlett and led her to the car.

His friends jeered. "Ooh, someone's in for it now. Tristan is terrifying when he's angry. You're gonna get what's coming to you."

A knot of anxiety tightened in my chest. I immediately pulled up the live stream on my phone.

A few moments later, Tristan appeared on screen.

He was impeccable in a tailored suit, the picture of calm composure, as if the scandal hadn't touched him at all. His expression was one of weary resignation.

"I apologize for taking up public resources," he began, his voice smooth and steady. "The 'Century Club' story is a complete fabrication. My wife and I had a disagreement, and in a moment of anger, she created this... lie. Ultimately, the fault is mine. I hope you can all understand."

He was poised, his smile flawless. In a few short sentences, he had thrown me to the wolves.

Gasps rippled through the press corps. They couldn't believe I was the unhinged one.

My friend Jessica, a reporter in the crowd, wasn't buying it. "A fabrication?" she challenged, her voice ringing out. "But Miss Scarlett Collins, your supposed hundredth conquest, has already publicly admitted to it. Are you calling her a liar now?"

Her question was a lightning bolt, electrifying the room.

"Yes, Mr. Blackwood, your mistress confessed!"

"What is your relationship with Miss Collins? Are you really divorcing your wife for her?"

Tristans gaze found Jessica, but his smile didn't waver. "Scarlett is my wife's younger sister. She's a gentle, timid girl who has always been afraid of her sister. She was bullied into lying. It was nothing more than a childish prank between them."

Jessica opened her mouth to argue, but Tristan cut her off, his eyes like steel. "I know you and my wife are close, Miss. But this is not the time to let personal feelings cloud your judgment."

Before Jessica could retort, her phone rang. After a brief, hushed conversation, the color drained from her face. She shot a look of pure hatred at the stage before rushing out of the room.

Just like that, the tide had turned. With his masterful manipulation, Tristan hadn't just cleared his name. He'd painted me as a liar and a cruel, abusive sister.

That night, he bought an army of bots to scrub his image clean online and bury me in filth.

Tristan's legion of devotees swarmed my social media accounts.

"You backstabbing bitch, you should kill yourself!"

"No wonder your parents didn't want you. If I were them, I'd have gotten rid of a monster like you too."

"Ugly and useless. Married for years and still just a barren hen."

"No, no, she had a kid. But she lost it... It was karma."

The world went dark. A wave of pain so intense it buckled my knees washed over me. When I came to, my fingers were wet with tears.

All these years as his wife... and I meant less to him than a one-night stand. He had taken my deepest trauma and twisted it into a weapon to use against me.

Tristan Blackwood... you have finally frozen my heart solid.

I blinked my eyes open as the bedroom door creaked. The soft sound of footsteps approached, and then Tristan's hand was on my shoulder. His lips brushed against my ear.

"Still want to play games with me?" he murmured, his voice thick with triumph.

When I didn't answer, my face pale and drawn, he grunted, his gaze turning cold. But his tone softened slightly. "This was just a small lesson. I don't want to hear any more threats from you. Just be a good little Mrs. Blackwood. I know you can do it. You used to be so good at it, weren't you?"

His hot breath tickled my ear as his large hand slid under my clothes.

A jolt of revulsion shot through me. I sprang up and slapped him, hard.

The sharp crack echoed in the silent room. Tristans expression turned murderous.

His face, now bearing the red imprint of my hand, twisted into a snarl. "Fine," he hissed, "Fine. Fine."

The slam of the front door rattled the walls. I raised my head, my eyes swollen and red, and walked numbly to the bedroom to pack a bag.

But then my phone rang. It was Jessica.

Her voice was trembling, a mixture of panic and sorrow. "Avery... I was fired."

"What?"

A roaring sound filled my ears. I stumbled, grabbing the bedpost for support.