At my birthday party, my husband suddenly shouted, “Ten years ago, your father paid me a million dollars to marry you. The contract’s over.” He threw down his ring and walked out as everyone watched in stunned silence. I stood frozen—until my father’s old lawyer stepped forward and said, “Your father predicted this day. His final gift activates only after those exact words.” What happened next left the entire room speechless.

The evening was perfect. Almost unnervingly so. I was turning thirty-nine, and Lazarus, my husband, had orchestrated a celebration of breathtaking elegance. He’d booked the main hall at The Imperial, the city’s most exclusive restaurant, a place where hushed tones and old money mingled. The entire hall was filled with white lilies, my favorite flowers. Their heavy, sweet scent mixed with the delicate aroma of expensive perfume and the warm, clean smell of hundreds of beeswax candles.