Everyone thought I had married Richard for his money.
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And they weren’t entirely wrong.
I was thirty-two years old. I was drowning in bills, and missing just one paycheck could have been enough for me to lose my apartment.
Richard was seventy-three. He was a wealthy widower and a lonely man — in the way wealthy people sometimes try to hide their loneliness behind marble floors, expensive watches, and enormous houses.
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We met at a charity dinner where I was serving champagne.
I barely noticed him. He sat away from the main table, watching the guests while everyone else talked about business, travel, and expensive cars.
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When I approached him, he asked:
— What’s your name?
I told him, and I was about to walk away when he unexpectedly looked at my legs and asked:
— Have you been standing all evening? Don’t your legs hurt?
