Chapter 1Rich From My Hundredth Divorce

Here we are again. Tim is asking for a divorce.

The excuse this time? His newest little pet is throwing a tantrum for a ring and a title. She’s young, he tells me, his tone practically bleeding with faux sympathy. Too fragile to be kept in the shadows.

He strokes my arm, soothing me with promises that as soon as he gets bored of her, we’ll remarry. I just need to be a good girl and sign the papers. He says it with the casual ease of a man asking me to pick up dry cleaning, completely untroubled, as if dismantling our marriage is just a minor administrative hiccup.

I put on my best performance, my voice trembling just the right amount as I ask if he truly means it this time.

He barely glances at me. "I never lie, Cora."

He follows it up with a smug, self-assured smirk, reminding me that no one else has ever lasted more than six months by his side. Don't worry your pretty little head about it.

I carefully scan the divorce settlement, letting my eyes drop to the very bottom of the page, tracing the delightfully long string of zeros next to my name.

The heavy, suffocating knot in my chest finally unravels.

This is the one-hundredth time my husband has asked me for a divorce.

For the previous ninety-nine times, he put on grand, theatrical shows to appease whatever little sugar baby he was keeping in a gilded cage. And every single time the ink dried on the final decree, the alimony hit my offshore accounts with the precision of a Swiss watch.

What Tim doesn’t know is that my greatest, most paralyzing fear is that one day, he might stop being so impulsive.

* * *

Tim stepped out of the en-suite, aggressively towel-drying his damp hair.

"Cora, don't forget. We need to file the papers with the city clerk tomorrow morning."

I stood by the doorframe, the freshly signed separation agreement clutched to my chest. He opened his mouth to add something, but his phone buzzed.

"...Relax, babe. I won't even touch her. You know you're the only one I want..." His voice dropped an octave, dripping with a sickening kind of intimacy. "Little brat. I'll deal with you later..."

I thoughtfully pulled the bathroom door shut to give him privacy and wandered out onto the balcony of the Hamptons estate. The night was thick and dark. Out here, the silence of the sprawling, isolated grounds felt almost melancholic.

A few minutes later, Tim emerged, car keys jingling in his hand. He caught sight of my desolate silhouette against the moonlight, and his footsteps faltered.

For a second, I thought he might actually possess the patience to comfort me.

"Can't bear to let me go?" he murmured, coming up behind me. "I know, I know. But this one... she’s a headache. Be good for me, Cora. This is the last time. I swear it. The absolute last time."

My eyes went wide in the dark. A cold sweat broke out along my spine.

The last time? What does he mean, the last time? No, no, no. Please, keep your terrible habits.

I quickly molded my face into an expression of pathetic dependency, turning to look up at him. "You're so good to me, Tim." My voice broke perfectly. "I never want you to be unhappy. I'd do anything for you."

He leaned down, his eyes searching mine. "I love you, Cora. We promised each other forever. These girls? They're just playtime. You are the real Mrs. Vanderbilt. You always will be."

He straightened up, his gaze sweeping over the oceanfront property. "Standard protocol. This house is yours now."

My hands began to tremble. Truly tremble.

He paused midway through buttoning his tailored coat, reaching out to pat my cheek. "Do whatever you want with it. Just don't be sad." His thumb brushed my cheekbone. "Be at City Hall on time tomorrow."

The front door clicked shut. He was gone.

I collapsed onto the plush velvet sofa, all the feigned weakness draining from my bones as I looked around the magnificent estate with deep, unadulterated satisfaction.

During our previous ninety-nine divorces, I had liquidated every single property he had ever signed over to me.

The first time he found out I had sold our actual marital home, he was furious. He demanded to know why.

I remember looking at him with trembling lips and eyes swimming in fabricated agony. "Tim, you don't understand. Every time I looked at those walls, I just saw the moment you told me you were leaving me. I... I couldn't breathe in there..."

I had let the sentence hang, choking on an imaginary sob.

He had pulled me into his arms, the guilt in his eyes entirely genuine. "I get it. Shh, don't say another word, Cora. It was too painful."

From that day on, every time we inevitably reconciled and moved into a new place, he made sure the deed was solely in my name. When the divorce cycle repeated, the house was mine to do with as I pleased.

For the first ninety-eight times, I played it safe. I never chose properties that were too obscenely expensive, terrified he might see through my facade and decide not to remarry me.

But this Hamptons estate? He picked this one himself. It was easily worth nine figures.

I didn't even wait for the sun to rise. I called my luxury real estate brokers immediately.

When they arrived, they took one look at me and smiled. We were old friends by now. Regulars.

They weren't just familiar with me; they knew Tim's habits inside out. After all, I used them to sell the properties, and whenever Tim wanted to buy a new one to woo me back, he used them too, purely for convenience.

They moved through the house with practiced efficiency, snapping photos, recording video walkthroughs, and taking inventory of the designer furniture.

I sat curled up on the sofa, clutching my phone to my chest, my eyes rubbed raw and red.

Tim called one of the brokers. "How is she? Is she crying?"

He did this every time. Whenever he initiated a divorce, he obsessively checked in with the people around me, needing to know if I was falling apart. As if it proved the depth of his love.

"Mrs. Vanderbilt is..." The broker caught herself, likely responding to whatever correction he barked on the other end. "Yes, Mr. Vanderbilt. Miss Su looks entirely devastated. Her eyes are so red."

I had been reading a particularly tragic romance novel on my phone for the last hour. The female lead's misery was practically infectious.

The broker hung up and looked at me with genuine pity. "He is such a toxic bastard."

I gave a pathetic little sniffle. "No, you don't understand him. Deep down, he has a good heart."

The team of women looked at me like I was a hopeless, brainwashed relic. But business was business. As they packed up their lighting equipment, the lead broker winked. "Next time you need to buy, you know who to call. Loyalty discount. Twenty percent off the commission."

I didn't say a word.

They didn't know. There wasn't going to be a next time.