My Billionaire Husband Only Gave Me $800 a Month

It was just severe malnutrition. After hesitating for a long moment, I finally spoke. "Excuse me. How much does an abortion cost?" The doctor looked up, a little puzzled. "An abortion? You're not that young anymore. Does your husband know you're considering it?" I kept my head down, at a loss for how to answer. He sighed, a note of regret in his voice. "It'll run you about ten thousand." I glanced at my phone. After putting the examination fee on my credit card, I had only three hundred dollars left. Out of the hospital, I headed straight for the Harding Group with my medical report. I still wanted to ask him face to face. If I kept the baby, the follow-up checkups and getting everything set up for the pregnancy would cost a fair amount too. Outside the CEO's office, Ivy stopped me. "Mr. Harding's in a meeting. Is there something you need, Mrs. Harding?" I clutched the report, my voice small. "I really am pregnant. If I'm going to keep the baby, I need money..." Ivy glanced at it, then tossed the report back at me. "Mrs. Harding, you really don't give up, do you. You even went and got a fake ultrasound." "And next month, are you going to fake a miscarriage so you can squeeze out some medical fees too?" A few of the staff in the CEO's office heard and turned their heads. "Come on, doesn't Mr. Harding give his wife plenty every month? She has to fake a pregnancy for money?" "She really treats Mr. Harding like an ATM." With every word they said, my head sank a little lower. Ivy stepped around me and pressed the elevator button. "Mrs. Harding, kindly stop disrupting our work. This way, please." I tucked the report into my bag and made my way downstairs amid the whispers. Passing through the lobby, I heard Ivy on the phone, scolding the front desk. "Don't let these deadbeats into the company from now on!" Seeing that, I could only quicken my steps and leave. I pressed a hand to my belly, murmuring to myself, "Baby, what is Mommy supposed to do?" Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the Hermès bag hanging from my arm, and suddenly an idea came to me. I rushed to the nearest luxury resale shop. Seeing how hurried I was, the owner decided I was desperate for cash and offered only eighty thousand dollars. It was the birthday gift Denys had given me this year, a limited nationwide release that was nearly impossible to get, no matter how much money you had. But I had no choice. I sold the bag anyway. I'd grown used to hard times. Only now, with the money in my account, did I finally feel a little more at ease. That very night, the Harding Group wife selling a designer bag secondhand was trending online. In the photo, I was handing the bag over to the shop owner. Some comments called me a reckless spender selling my things to cover debts. Others said my marriage had fallen apart and I was taking the money and running. Soon Denys called me. He kept his voice low. "Are you that desperate for money? Desperate enough to sell the birthday gift I gave you?" "No wonder Ivy said you came by this afternoon with a fake pregnancy report, demanding money." I wanted to explain. But he gave me no chance to speak. "If you need money, you can tell Ivy. There's no need to take the money and run. His voice was low, thick with disappointment. Every word I'd meant to say died in my throat. All that was left was, "Understood." I hung up. I hadn't even decided whether I wanted to keep the baby. The eighty thousand that had just landed in my account, along with the money Rebecca had lent me, was all transferred out. Ivy sent me a message: "Mr. Harding says you don't know how to control your spending, so I've moved this money for now. I'll hold onto it for you." The next day, everything of value in my home was hauled out. The genuine leather sofa, the smart appliances, even the potted plants on the balcony. Nothing was left.

Ivy stood at the door, keeping a tally of everything being carried out. "Look sharp, don't miss anything. Otherwise Mr. Harding's home could be stripped bare and sold off without him ever knowing." I stood off to the side, awkward and helpless, with no right to stop any of it. After they left, I stared at the empty rooms and let out a bitter laugh. A year ago, when I first arrived here, Denys had picked out everything himself. Back then, he'd just rescued me from my gambling-addicted father. "From now on, you're mine. You'll never have to be afraid of money again." He'd meant every word. His promise had been so sincere, so full of conviction, that I believed him without hesitation. But now I couldn't help wondering if I'd chosen the wrong path from the very beginning. A local job listing pushed a notification to my phone. Bartender needed. $400 a day. If I kept the job under the radar for a month, I'd have enough money for the abortion. When I went in for the interview, the bar manager saw how sincere I was and decided to hire me on the spot. I'd start in three days. As I walked out of the bar, I pulled out my phone to text Rebecca. I hadn't even finished typing when my stomach suddenly heaved, my vision went black, and I collapsed. When I opened my eyes again, I was already in the hospital. A young nurse saw me stir and was adding something to my IV with a syringe. "You've been malnourished for a long time. This is a nutrient drip." "I've never seen a pregnant woman faint from hunger before. Where's your husband? This is beyond irresponsible." I clutched the corner of the blanket, my voice flat. "I don't have a husband." After she heard that, a flicker of pity crossed her face. "The baby's innocent. You really can't punish yourself like this." I nodded—I'd thought that with the baby, I wouldn’t be hungry anymore. But on the day I was discharged, I called Denys three times, and he hung up every time. There was no other choice. I had to borrow money from Rebecca to pay the hospital bill. She transferred it to me without a word. "You passed out and Denys still won't look after you and your baby?! Let him go to hell!" "I absolutely have to go and teach him a lesson!" I hurried to stop her. "Rebecca, let me handle it myself, please." "I'll contact him tonight about the baby." What surprised me was that when I got home, Denys was there too. He was carrying dishes out from the kitchen and didn't seem particularly happy to see me come back. "How is there nothing to eat in this house? Is this how you've been living?" Before he could finish, the thick smell of grease sent me rushing to the bathroom to throw up. He followed behind me, and upon seeing my condition, asked with concern. "What's wrong? You look awful." He handed me a glass of water. "Since when did you get so delicate?" I took the glass, rinsed my mouth, and only then felt a little better. "Give me some money." The air froze for a few seconds before Denys let out a scoffing laugh. "So all this fuss, and you just want money?" "Those three calls today, those were about money too?" I braced myself against the wall and stood up. "Yes." Denys looked at me, his eyes cold as ice. "You really never change. For money, there's nothing you won't do." He snatched up his coat and paused at the door. "I'll have Ivy transfer the money to you." Then he slammed the door hard behind him, the bang reverberating through the house. I didn't know how long it was before I made my way to the dining table. On it sat roast beef, my favorite. But looking at them now only turned my stomach. Early the next morning, I got a message from Ivy. "Mrs. Harding, you’ll never be satisfied. Demanding money without restraint like this will only make Mr. Harding despise you more."

"Mr. Harding says if you ask for money again, next month's allowance gets cut in half." Right after that came a transfer. Two hundred dollars. I stared at the transaction record for a long time before I finally tapped to accept it. At least breakfast was covered now. It was just that this marriage, one where I had to beg just to afford enough food, was suffocating me. After a long while, I sent Denys a text. "Since you can't afford to keep me, let's get divorced." That night, I went to my bar shift at the agreed time. After changing into the black-and-red uniform, I sat in the break room, eating a bread I'd bought on the way. The manager held up his phone, comparing it against me, glancing from me to the screen and back. "Interesting, you look an awful lot like that Mrs. Harding. You're not here for some ulterior motive, are you?" I waved him off and took a bite of the bread. "You've got the wrong person. I'm not Mrs. Harding." He looked me up and down, then let out a breath. "Right. The wife of the Harding CEO could never end up in a state like this." "Finish up and get to work." It was my first day, and I was still getting the hang of things. The floor supervisor walked me through the daily tasks, but there were so many customers that night that she couldn't keep up. "Claire, take this bottle up to VIP Room 8. Don't keep them waiting." I wasn't familiar with the bar, but I had no choice. I took the bottle and nervously searched for Room 8. After carefully dodging every guest who tried to strike up a conversation, I finally found Room 8 at the end of the hallway. Just as I was about to push the door open, I saw Denys sitting on the couch. He looked like he'd had a fair amount to drink. He usually held his liquor well, but a faint flush had crept into his cheeks. Right now he wore only a black shirt, the top two buttons undone. He lounged against the couch and lazily lifted a hand to light a cigarette. "Three million dollars a month in pocket money for my wife. Is that really not enough?" The buddy beside him whipped his head around. "Did I hear that right? Your wife gets three million a month and still says it's not enough?" I knew this man— Benjamin Finch, Denys's childhood friend. I'd met him a few times. Denys blew out a ring of smoke and gave a flat little hum of agreement. "I always figured that after growing up with a gambling-addicted father, she'd know better than to throw money around, even if she had plenty of it." "But Ivy says she never has enough, always in and out of luxury clubs, never a quiet day." Benjamin shot up off the couch, stunned. "Denys, don't tell me your wife's keeping some boy toy on the side. Who'd have thought? She looks so quiet and demure, but behind closed doors she really knows how to have fun." Only then did Denys turn his head toward him. His eyes narrowed as he stubbed out the cigarette in his hand. "These past few days she's gotten more and more out of line. She even claimed she was pregnant, demanding Ivy wire her money again and again." "Last night she was practically crying about how broke she was, so I had someone send her another million." He paused, then tipped back the rest of the drink in his glass. "But this morning she texted me, said if I couldn't afford to keep her then don't bother, and told me we should get divorced." I stood outside the door, taking in every word. If I hadn't just pulled up my own deposit records and seen the eight hundred dollars that landed each month, I might almost have believed it. If it wasn't me, then it was someone else. I was shaking with rage, and I couldn't hold it back any longer. I shoved the door open. The instant Denys saw me, he froze. "Claire, what are you doing here?" Benjamin went white and instinctively stepped in front of him. "Easy now, take it easy." I couldn't calm down. I had been scraping by on eight hundred dollars for months, while he'd been handing another woman three million. I slammed the drinks in my hands onto the floor, sending liquor and shattered glass flying. Neither of them moved. I couldn't hold back another second. I slapped Denys hard across the face. "Tell me. Exactly how many wives do you have?" Denys's eyes were bloodshot. He clenched his teeth and bit out each word. "Only you." At that, I froze where I stood, my throat tightening. "Then why do I only get eight hundred dollars a month?"