The morning I became worth seventy-three million dollars was also the morning my husband decided I was no longer worth keeping.
He walked through our front door with another woman beside him and calmly told me to pack my things.
Twelve hours earlier, none of that had happened yet.
I had stopped at a gas station for coffee on my way home and bought a two-dollar lottery ticket because the cashier laughed and told me I looked like someone who could use a little luck.
That night, after dinner, I scratched it at the kitchen counter.
Then I checked the numbers.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
My hands started shaking so badly that I dropped my phone.
Seventy-three million dollars.
For hours, I sat there trying to understand what it meant.
I imagined paying off the mortgage.
Helping my mother.
Traveling somewhere warm.
Maybe even opening the design studio I had dreamed about for years but kept postponing because Mark always insisted his career had to come first.
