My Billionaire Husband Sent $500K. I Got $300. novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: Three Hundred Dollars
Callie slaps her husband in the VIP suite of his own casino; as he swears she is his only wife, the man who has been robbing her walks in smiling.
I was sixteen weeks pregnant the night I put on a black uniform and started cleaning tables at the Silver Lark.
It was my husband's casino.
He did not know I worked there.
He did not know about the baby.
I had not seen him in three months.
At two in the morning my supervisor pushed a tray of clean glasses into my hands.
"VIP suite, third floor," she said. "Don't speak unless they speak to you."
I rode the elevator up with my knees shaking.
The hall was gold from the ceiling to the carpet.
Two guards in black suits looked at my uniform and my tray and waved me through.
Inside, four men sat around a card table with cigars.
And in the leather chair at the head of it, with a glass of whiskey in his hand, sat Dario.
My Dario.
His tie was loose. He looked rested, entirely unbothered.
"Half a million dollars a month," he told the others, and swirled his glass. "And my wife still cries to everyone that she can't afford dinner."
The men laughed.
I had eaten half a sleeve of crackers since Sunday.
My feet hurt, my back hurt, and the baby had been rolling all night.
I set the tray down on the nearest table.
I walked across the room.
And I slapped him as hard as I could.
The sound cracked off the gold walls.
Both guards moved at once.
Dario raised one hand without looking at them, and they stopped where they stood.
A red mark came up on his cheek.
At the card table, his cousin Rocco whistled through his teeth.
"The cleaning girl hits harder than your bodyguards, Dario," he said, and the other men grinned.
Nobody grinned when Dario turned his head.
He stared at my face, at my cheap uniform, at my hair tied back with a rubber band.
"Callie?"
My whole body was shaking, but my voice came out clear.
"How many wives do you have, Dario?"
His jaw went tight.
"One," he said. "You. There is nobody else."
"Then why," I said, "am I living on three hundred dollars a month?"
Nobody in that room said a word.
Lowell Hatch had been the one to bring me that money.
He was Dario's accountant, soft and gray, with round glasses, and he had stood up as our witness at the chapel.
Dario had married me nine months ago and told me nobody could know until it was safe.
Then his phone went dead, and he stopped coming.
So when I found out about the baby, Lowell was the only person I could reach.
He brought chicken soup and an envelope of twenties.
"That's his instruction," he said, and his eyes were so kind. "He wants you to learn to manage."
Every month he brought another envelope, and a few pages with little blue flags where my name went.
"The bank's forms," he said.
I signed every one, because he was the only person who still came to my door.
Then my savings ran out, and the night crew at the Silver Lark was hiring.
Dario had once told me, half asleep, that his family owned it.
Now I stood in his suite with my hand still stinging, and Dario was staring at me with his mouth half open.
"Three hundred," he said slowly. "Who gave you three hundred dollars?"
"Lowell Hatch. Every month, in an envelope."
All the color left his face.
Behind me, the door opened.
"Mrs. C," said Lowell Hatch warmly. "You really shouldn't be on your feet."
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