My Marriage Cost My Father His Life

I'm Marilyn Voss' husband, yet I can't spend so much as a few dollars without getting approval through her company. When my father needs emergency surgery, I submit a desperate request for 30,000 Bellan dollars. Marilyn's assistant, Callan Rourke, finally approves it. Three minutes later, the transfer arrives. But at the hospital billing desk, I'm told I have only 138 dollars available. That's when I realize what Callan has done. He sent the money in the wrong currency, leaving me with only a fraction of what I need. I call my wife, frantic for help. "Callan already approved your request," Marilyn says coldly. "Stop asking for more. I'm busy." Then she hangs up. I send Callan proof of the transfer. Seconds later, he replies with a mocking voice message. "Oops. Guess I picked the wrong currency. But money is money, right? Besides, you've been spending an awful lot lately. Maybe it's time you learned to cut back." That day, I can't raise the money for my father's surgery in time. And I lose him. Almost simultaneously, Callan uploads a string of photos from Bellgrave with the caption, "Touring Bellgrave's medical sector with the boss." In every picture, he's smiling beside my wife as they drink together at a luxury hotel. While my father is dying, my wife is with him. And that's the moment something inside me finally breaks. Chapter 1 I called Marilyn Voss over and over like a madman. It took more than a dozen tries before someone finally picked up. A man's voice answered. Wherever he was, it was strangely quiet. "Mr. Voss is in the shower. What do you want?" It was Callan Rourke. My throat closed up. "Callan, put Marilyn on the phone. My dad's running out of time. I need the money for his surgery!" He gave a soft laugh. "You need money? Then submit an expense request through the company portal." He paused, as if he'd just remembered something. "Oh, right. I rejected your last one. You forgot the itemized medical expenses. Make sure you include the exact price of every medication this time. Down to the individual pill." The call ended. I tried again. The phone was off. A second later, my phone buzzed. It was a notification from the company portal. It read, "Your emergency advance request has been denied. Reason for denial: Amount exceeds approval threshold. Please provide a complete itemized breakdown of anticipated medical expenses, including the unit price of all medications." I stared at the screen as my knees gave out beneath me. How was I supposed to provide an exact itemized bill when my father hadn't even had the surgery yet? Another notification appeared, this one from social media. Callan had uploaded a carousel of nine photos and tagged himself at a luxury hotel in Bellgrave. The last photo looked innocent at first. Then I saw the woman's hand at the edge of the frame. And the bracelet around her wrist. I knew that bracelet. I'd seen Marilyn wear it countless times. Callan's caption sat beneath the photos. "Business trip with the boss. Meanwhile, someone's back home throwing another tantrum." I couldn't stop staring at the photo. Then the light above the emergency room doors went dark. A doctor stepped out, pulled down his mask, and shook his head. "I'm sorry. If we'd been able to begin even 20 minutes earlier…" The rest of his words dissolved into meaningless noise. "Can I…" I barely recognized my own voice. "Can I see my dad?" The head nurse gave me a quiet nod. By the time I pulled on the sterile gown, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely fasten it. My father, Gideon Sayer, was in the bed at the far end of the room, surrounded by tubes and monitors. I walked over and took his hand. The moment he saw me, a faint spark returned to his clouded eyes. His lips moved. I bent down immediately. "Lucian…" "I'm here, Dad." I pressed my face against the back of his hand. Tears flooded my eyes, but I fought desperately to hold them back. "It's okay. The money's coming. We'll get you into surgery. Just hang on a little longer…" Dad shook his head, the movement almost imperceptible. Then, gathering what little strength he had left, he traced something weakly against my palm. It took me a few seconds to understand. Lucian Sayer. My name. "Lucian…" His voice was barely more than a breath. "Don't let anyone make you small… because of me." My chest tightened. He gave the faintest nod, and something in his expression eased, as though he'd finally said the one thing he couldn't bear to leave unsaid. "Go and be free, Lucian." Each word seemed to cost him more than the last. "Live your life… Don't spend it carrying me." Chapter 2 "Dad, stop talking. Save your strength. We'll get you into surgery, and then you'll be okay. You'll be fine…" The words tumbled out of me, frantic and senseless. Dad only shook his head again. Then his eyes slowly closed. My father died over 138 dollars. I stayed on my knees beside his bed, clutching his hand as its warmth gradually left. The nurses came to get me three times before I finally let go. By the time I walked out of the hospital, night had fallen. The streetlights stretched my shadow across the pavement, long and thin, like the last three years of my life. Three years in which my pride had been stripped away piece by piece until there was almost nothing left. I took out my phone and sent Marilyn a text. "I want a divorce." I boarded the first bus that came. Apart from the driver, I was the only person on it. I took a seat by the window and rested my head against the glass. I found myself thinking back to five years ago. I was a college senior then, working overnight shifts at a 24-hour diner. Marilyn was one of our regulars. She always ordered black coffee and took the booth by the window, working quietly on her laptop for hours. One night, a drunk woman grabbed my arm and refused to let go until I made her what she called "a cocktail for falling in love". Before I could figure out how to get rid of her without causing a scene, Marilyn closed her laptop. She walked over and stepped between us. After that, she started showing up suspiciously close to the end of my shifts. Always by coincidence, of course. At least, that was what she claimed. Eventually, she told me about her family. They were pressuring her to marry the son of one of their business partners. She said she was exhausted by people who treated every relationship like a negotiation and every kindness like an investment. She wanted something uncomplicated, something real. Then one night, sitting across from me in that nearly empty diner, Marilyn looked straight at me and said, "Lucian Sayer, you're nothing like the people I grew up around." And I believed her. I thought that was love. I thought somehow, against all odds, an ordinary guy like me had been chosen by the beautiful woman who seemed to have everything. I never stopped to wonder why a woman like Marilyn had chosen me in the first place. Back then, I was just stupid enough to think I'd gotten my fairy-tale ending. For my birthday, Marilyn didn't buy me an expensive watch or some other flashy gift. She found me a complete first-edition box set of a graphic novel series I'd loved for years, one that had long been out of print. Then she said, "Lucian, marry me. Let me give you a home." Our wedding was small. Rushed, even. Marilyn told me her family was against the marriage, so we could make it legal first and have a proper ceremony once things settled down. Dad held my hand that day, his eyes filled with tears. "As long as the two of you are happy, that's enough for me. I don't need anything else. I just want you to have a good life." I thought that was exactly what I was getting. I thought it was the beginning of something safe. Then, in the second year of our marriage, Dad got sick. The first time I asked Marilyn for money, she transferred 200,000 dollars without asking a single question. The second time, she frowned, but she still sent it. The third time, Callan just happened to be sitting beside her. He smiled at me and said, "You've been spending a lot of money lately, haven't you, Lucian?" The fourth time, Marilyn asked, "What exactly is wrong with your father? Why does he constantly need more money?" The fifth time I asked for help, she didn't send me anything. Instead, she said, "Put in a request through the company portal. We have procedures for this. It's better if everything is properly documented." I had no idea how much Callan had been whispering in her ear. I only knew that from that day forward, I wasn't really Marilyn's husband anymore. I was another expense on her balance sheet, the kind that needed approval before I could so much as buy a bottle of water. By the time I returned to the cold, sprawling house we supposedly called home, it was already afternoon. The enormous living room was empty. I sat on the rug with the box Dad had left me cradled in my arms. This was what he'd spent some of his final strength trying to tell me to find. Then I heard the electronic chime of the front door unlocking downstairs, followed by footsteps. Marilyn was home. She didn't stop anywhere along the way. Her footsteps came straight upstairs and headed for the master bedroom. When she appeared in the doorway, her gaze swept across my face. She took in the tear tracks, the exhaustion, the dust still clinging to my clothes. She didn't ask what had happened and didn't seem to notice anything was wrong at all. She walked into the room, shrugged off her coat, and tossed it carelessly onto the bed. Then, loosening the silk scarf around her neck, she said in the same tone she used when giving orders at work. "Callan's coming over for dinner tonight. We need to go over the details of the new project. Get everything ready." Still sitting on the floor, I looked up at the woman who, three years ago, had told me there was something pure about my eyes—the woman who had promised to give me a home. And the woman who had stood by and let her secretary decide that my father's life wasn't worth 138 dollars. Chapter 3 I said nothing. Before, I'd been afraid of divorce because Dad was still alive. He needed treatment and money. And as long as keeping him alive depended on Marilyn, I'd swallowed every insult, every humiliation, every scrap of dignity they took from me. But now, Dad was dead. He had died somewhere inside Marilyn and Callan's neat little corporate approval process. He had died over 138 dollars. There was nothing left for them to hold over me. Nothing left that could make me stay. At exactly 7:00 pm, the doorbell rang. I didn't move from the living room couch. The butler hurried to answer it, and seconds later, Callan's deliberately charming voice floated in from the entryway. "Thanks, Mr. Wolff. I brought some of those dry-aged steaks Marilyn likes. Thought we could have them for dinner." He sounded so comfortable here, as though he were the man of the house. Callan walked in, the sharp click of his dress shoes against the marble floor announcing every step. Marilyn emerged from her study. The moment she saw him, something in her expression softened. "You're here." "Yeah. Traffic was awful." Callan smiled. His gaze drifted casually around the living room before settling on me. For just a second, something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or amusement. It disappeared too quickly to be sure. "Oh, Lucian. You're home too." His smile widened with perfectly rehearsed concern. "You look terrible. You really should get some rest." I didn't answer. Callan handed the steaks to the housekeeper, Jenna Mercer, then wandered through the living room with the casual confidence of someone inspecting property that already belonged to him. He stopped beside a small end table where I'd placed an old photograph of Dad. He reached out and ran a fingertip along the edge of the frame. "Marilyn," he said, turning toward her, his voice gentle and almost thoughtful. "Do you think this should really be sitting here? It's the first thing you see when you walk through the front door. It makes the room feel a little… somber, don't you think?" Marilyn was looking down at her phone. She barely gave it a thought. "Sure. Put it away." That was all the permission Callan needed. He opened the drawer beneath the table, slipped Dad's photograph inside, and pushed it shut with a soft click. The whole thing was so smooth, so effortless, that it felt practiced. It was as if he'd been rearranging my home for years. My nails dug into my palms until the dull sting brought me back to myself. Dinner was served soon afterward. Marilyn took her usual seat at the head of the table. Without hesitation, Callan pulled out the chair immediately to her right and sat down, as if that seat had always been his. I sat across from Marilyn at the opposite end, as far away from both of them as I could get. Callan controlled the conversation through most of dinner, talking almost exclusively about work. Marilyn occasionally responded, but for the most part, she simply listened. Their world of budgets, contracts, and corporate decisions felt impossibly far removed from the life I'd been living for the past five years. Yet, somehow, it had been close enough to kill my father. All that had stood between him and the money he needed was a request in their company portal. "Oh, that reminds me." Callan turned to me as though the thought had only just occurred to him, a polished professional smile settling onto his face. "Lucian, I took another look at that emergency advance you submitted." For a moment, the atmosphere around the table seemed to freeze. Callan continued, "According to the system logs, you actually submitted the request in Bellan dollars instead of dollars. "You were probably panicking and selected the wrong currency. Just be more careful next time. Mistakes like that create a real headache for the accounting department." Then he sighed, wearing the patient expression of someone generously overlooking another person's incompetence. "Everyone makes mistakes, but you really need to slow down and pay attention. You can't keep creating problems for Marilyn to clean up." Selected the wrong currency? I set down my fork. The sharp clink of metal against porcelain cut through the room. Then I looked Callan straight in the eye. "Mr. Rourke, once an expense request has been submitted, does the person approving it have permission to edit the request directly? Including the currency?"