The Rich Man’s Wife

This week’s is to include the word ‘weak’ in a 33-333 word piece, using the definition ‘not factually grounded or logically presented, e.g. a weak argument’.

My husband’s rich. Filthy, stinking, flashing the cash in your face, rich. He keeps tens of thousands of pounds under his mattress for God’s sake. 

I’m not going to lie, it was his expensive looking suit and the extravagant bottle of champagne he bought on our first date that made me fall for him. 

The same extravagance and charm made countless other women fall for him too it seemed. I’d noticed the signs. The ‘working late’, the mysterious scratch on his chest, the lack of sex. 

I remember the first time we made love. I was in total awe of his house, it was like a palace to a terraced house girl like me. We made passionate love in his bed, on top of all those hundred pound notes. I was literally ‘rolling in it’.

Our wedding was ridiculous. The guests were practically swimming in champagne, I could barely lift my hand due to the enormous diamond on my finger, and I had the most beautiful dress money could buy. 

We never had kids. ‘Who needs kids when you can have a yacht?’ he used to say. We never had a yacht. All money, and no action.

Well, he had action with these other women. I’ve had enough. Yes, he’s rich, but I’ve decided that’s a weak argument for staying. I’m no longer the poor little girl I was when I met him, he can no longer impress me. I’m no longer in awe of him. He’s a pathetic little cheat.

I’m getting out. And I’m taking what’s under the mattress with me.



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