Trillionaire After Divorce

"You should sign."

Vincent says with ease as he hands me a blue pen over the poor excuse of a ‘bed in breakfast’ he set up.

I can humour his attempt at making pancakes by eating them despite them being undercooked, but the attempt at wooing me seems attached to a ridiculous document.

The more I skim it, the more the grease used to make the pancake rises up my throat.

I can't believe this.

"What?"

I ask, just to make sure he is aware of what he is asking.

"Sign the documents. The doctors will only take a small piece of your liver and give it to my mother. It's a perfectly safe solution."

I know his mother has a liver issue, and a few weeks ago, we all tested out of formality to see who a perfect match would be to donate. Still, she is the same woman who slapped me because I ‘oversalted’ her son’s food even though Vincent said it was fine—forgive me if my liver testing was more out of ‘peer pressure’ than the genuine interest to help her.

“You said you would help.”

Vincent reminds me when my hesitation grows.

Instead of answering, I push my makeshift breakfast table aside and slip out of my sheets.

I don’t have the heart to tell him I despise his mother to the point of (maybe-definitely) wanting her to die, so I take a deep breath and instead open the curtains.

“Livy!”

Vincent commands, so I turn to answer him.

"Vincent, I took the test alongside your family. There is no way both you and your sister aren’t a match."

"Mia is a mother; she has children to take care of; even mum doesn’t want to inconvenience Mia’s family.”

“But she is fine inconveniencing your family?”

“Did you just call my mother an inconvenience?”

He asks with a sneer that forces me to retract my anger.

“No... I- Look, Vincent, I want kids too; you are the one who isn’t ready!”

“That’s not the point; Mia has kids now, so she can't do the surgery. I mean, who would take care of them? You? Of course not; as for me, I work and provide for both you and mother, so just do it. This is an emergency; how can you be so selfish; it's not like you have a job or anything that’s keeping you from donating to help your mother-in-law.”

I hate the lump filling my chest, ascertaining that I cannot breathe over it; I hate even more that I am accustomed to this feeling.

“Vincent, I stay at home because you don’t want me working. You want me taking care of your mother twenty-four hours a day, the same mother who is still trying to set you up with half the females in your workplace! I-”

“God, you are vindictive! That was one time, and nothing happened. You cannot punish her because of something she did in ignorance.”

He defends in a boisterous tone that drowns out my sigh.

“See, that’s the thing; she knows exactly what she is doing. Do you know how often she rubs it in that I depend on you financially? You asked me to quit so that I can take care of her, yet-“

“I’ll pay for the surgery; you can tell her that you found a part-time job and made it possible to-”

It’s like speaking to a brick wall.

“That’s not the iss-”

I begin my retort, but his eyes turn to the door.

“Vincent! Honey!”

My mother-in-law’s call sounds from across the hall; he must have heard her door open, so his concentration on the topic dwindled.

Our house is small, but Vincent wanted her to live with us because we did not have kids yet.

I want kids.

“Mother is up; I’ll go see what she wants; you make her breakfast.”

“Wait, that’s it? Don’t you have something else to say to me?”

“I will not apologise, Olivia, you are being selfish, and on that note, Mother wanted to go to the market in the afternoon before her dialysis; drive her there and keep her company; she is frail, so ensure she wears her jacket.”

He utters before turning away from me to exit his room to meet his mother, but that wasn’t what I wanted him to say.

“…just…a simple 'happy anniversary' would have been...”

I clamp my mouth shut, hoping that act would at least diminish the tears I restrict from flowing, yet still, my vision swims in unshed tears.

I guess he forgot this year as well.

Sometimes I feel more like a maid than ‘Mrs James’, but there are many shades of him.

 He is simply in a bad mood; I excuse before turning my gaze to the greasy and undercooked pancakes; the effort to make them no longer feels cute.

**

“Do you think I am being selfish for wanting to keep my organs intact?”

I pose the question to Natasha, my best friend from university, as I stare at the onions that I have already loaded up on just to stall for time so that I do not have to be near my mother-in-law in the supermarket.

“A little.”

“A little? Tasha?”

I call, hoping she reconsiders her answer.

“I mean, look at it this way: you love Vincent.”

She reminds me calmly through the phone; I can hear a door close on her end and some water run.

“I do.”

“Losing his mum to a liver disease when you could help keep her alive would break him; I mean, no offence, but your husband is a ‘mama’s boy’.”

“That he is. But I don’t see how that is my responsibility; both he and his sister Mia are a match.”

“But he is the breadwinner, and Mia is a mother. You aren’t…I mean, I don’t mean for this to come out wrongly, but you don’t do much aside from acting as eye candy during his work meetings-”

A sigh leaves my lips before I hang up the phone.

Despite her personality and her criticisms of how I do the bare minimum, even though I do chores that make me feel as if I am an unpaid maid, she is still my friend.

“Fuck.”

A hard hand crashes against my back as the curse slips from my lips.

No one but my mother-in-law hits me physically and pretends as if it is good-natured.

“Nancy, are you through with your shopping?”

I ask as I turn to face my mother-in-law.

“What kind of disgusting language is that? Do you use such words in front of my son?”

He isn’t three. He knows what the words mean. Wasn’t he a rapper a few years back before he dawned a business suit and gave his life to the finance corporation at her insistence?

“No, I'm sorry Nancy.”

I apologise either way.

Nancy clicks her tongue before dumping her load onto my shopping basket as if it were not already full.

I had suggested a shopping cart for the wheels and space, but she refused because ‘it would only make me buy things and I am not paying for said things with my money’, yet her things are worth twice mine, and by ‘mine’, I mean household items like food while ‘hers’ luxury chocolates and sweets to gift her friend group.

“Just go pay. I will be late for my doctor’s appointment.”

She dismisses.

“Of course.”

The basket in my hand is heavy, so I place it on the floor before ransacking my bag for Vincent’s card, but I cannot see my wallet.

“Oh no! I changed bags and forgot Vincent's card on the bed-”

“How useless are you? Have you forgotten that I am sick? You think I want to waste my time out of bed like this?”

“of course not, I- I was conf-”

“I- I- I- enough of your cheap excuses; I don’t even know what my son saw in you, God! He should have married that lawyer on Eleventh Street, Jodi or even that colleague of his, Natasha Forrest.”

The words ‘I’m sorry’ dance at the tip of my tongue, but I cannot voice it, call it the last shred of my dignity.

“What the hell are you standing around for? Go home and get his card.”

“Oh...y-yes.”

It's far, do I have to drive to and from now? Can’t she ask me to get the shopping after her dialysis? I’m also supposed to pick up Mia’s children at three because she is busy and-

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

She insists, and suddenly, my worries vanish as I turn into a willing slave; it's faster if I get to it anyway.

“R-right!”

I answer, and like a broken and trained soldier, I leave the store hurriedly; I swear I hear her mutter the word ‘idiot’ under her breath, but at least she didn’t hit me in public—right?

**

There are women's shoes on our doormat next to Vincent’s.

Usually, I would assume that Mia had brought her family over for my cooking, but...she would have told my mother-in-law about it so that I prepare extra food, and there would have been a pair of sneakers for her little ones.

So then...whose shoes are these?

My hand turns on the knob slowly; I cannot tell if it is my perception of time or if my fingers purposefully delay the turn, but the sight before my eyes as the door swings open is Tasha’s.

She is naked save for my robe on her body; hell, even her hair is wrapped up as if she were from a spa.

"Livy...”

She calls in surprise as she lowers the bottle of orange juice in her hand.  

I can't see Vincent; I need to...

My eyes take in water droplets on the floor leading to the kitchen and some upstairs before wordlessly; my legs take me past her and up the stairs—Vincent always falls asleep after sex.

“Wait, Livy, I can explain."

Of course, she can; everyone can explain, but I need to look Vincent in the eye. I need him to be the one to say that this is a misunderstanding.

He needs to be the one to convince me that this ‘isn’t what it looks like’.

My force in opening the door seems to be the one that jolts him awake.

"What...what time is it...Olivia? Aren't you shopping?”

He is in bed, from the looks of it, a nap, but how long have I been out of the house?

Was it enough for sex and a nap?

I can't…I can’t think clearly.

My vision is swirling, and I feel like throwing up. Am I breathing?

"Wait, Livy, I can explain.”

Natasha finally catches up to me before the scent of our shampoo washes over my frame from her.

"You've been screwing my best friend?"

The question slips from my lips with no tact, but even so, Vincent: Say no, say that you haven’t, say I'm mistaken, say anything...I will believe you if you convince me and tell me that such a thought is stupid and that you only love me.

But, for the longest time, his dark eyes travel between Natasha and me wordlessly.

 How can he not say anything?

"You were supposed to be out with Mother. Is she back as well? What did the doctor say?”

Vincent, the man I love, is terrible at love.  

"I asked you a question, Vincent."

I utter, unwilling to give in despite an apology for leaving his mother alone dancing at the tip of my tongue.

A sneer rises on his lips as an irritated sound leaves his throat, all while he peels the sheets off him to expose his boxers to both Natasha and me.

He leaves me without a doubt that my question irritates him.  

"No, I didn’t have sex with her. She had a spill from lunch, and I loaned her a shower because we live close and she has a date in the evening. As for this, I come home sometimes to nap, especially on days like today. Have you forgotten how early I had to wake up to make you breakfast?”

He responds as he picks his discarded shirt from the ground to wear it.

Vincent…at least...tell me a convincing lie. Since when can you so easily get dressed in front of a woman who isn’t me?

 I... must look like the stupidest woman alive.

 When?

When was it that I began to resemble a doormat?  

“Vincent.”

“Yes, Olivia?”

He asks as if he is waiting for my explanation of his mother’s whereabouts because his matter has been resolved.

“I want a divorce.”