Chapter 2The Wife Who Demanded A Split

Eighty thousand.

To be precise, my base salary was twenty thousand, but with my founder’s equity and quarterly dividends, it averaged out to nearly a million a year.

In a good month, it was more. In a bad month, it never dipped below forty.

Why did I hide it?

It started as a test. The year I met Mallory, I had just been named co-founder of my tech firm. We met through friends. she was polished, sharp, a rising star in a state-owned utility firm making good money.

On our third date, she took me to meet her mother.

Over coffee, Erica asked three questions:

"What do your parents do?"

"Do you own property?"

"What’s your current salary?"

I told her my parents ran a small hardware store in a small town, that I was renting, and that my salary was...

"Fifty thousand," I said.

I had intended to tell the truth. But as I was about to speak, Mallory went to the restroom, and Erica took a call from her sister in the kitchen. She didn't close the door.

"The specs are average, but he’s handsome, tall, and seems easy to handle," I heard Erica whisper. "The family has nothing. He won’t have any leverage. It’s better this way—my daughter needs someone who’ll listen, not someone with too much money and an ego."

Easy to handle.

Those three words stayed with me. So, I stuck with the fifty thousand. I wanted to see what would happen if I was only "worth" that much.

I watched for five years. The answer was crystal clear.

The "fifty-thousand-dollar" Beckett was a second-class citizen in the Pierce-Vane household.

At Christmas, Erica would give Mallory’s sister’s husband a Rolex and then turn to me with a $50 Amazon gift card: "I know things are tight for you. Don't feel like you have to reciprocate."

When Mallory went to galas or industry mixers, she never invited me.

"Why would you go? You wouldn't even understand what they're talking about."

I spent my holidays cooking for three, cleaning up after three, and listening to Erica complain about my seasoning.

"Look at Mark—Mallory’s colleague’s husband—he’s an MD at Goldman, makes half a million, and he still manages to be a gourmet cook. What’s your excuse?"

Mark. I’d hear that name a lot. But not because of his cooking.

Every month, my actual pay—the real money—went into an account Mallory didn't know existed. Over five years, I used that money to buy three properties in cash.

A condo on the Upper West Side.

A townhouse in Brooklyn Heights.

A penthouse in Long Island City.

All of them were registered under my pre-marital holding company. Clean. Untouchable.

Mallory didn't know. Erica didn't know.

They only knew the man who "managed" to pay his thirty percent on time. They only knew the man they had "graciously" allowed into their lives.