Married to My Ex’s Billionaire Uncle

Chapter 1: The Price of a Marriage “Grace, you have to be reasonable.” Mason Reed said it gently, as if he were the patient one. As if she were a child throwing a tantrum over a toy instead of a woman who had put every dollar she had saved into the apartment they were supposed to live in after marriage. “My parents are ordinary people,” he continued. “They spent most of their savings on that place. It isn’t easy for them. Why do you have to be so hung up on whose name goes on the title? Once we’re married, we’ll live there together anyway. Isn’t that what matters?” Grace Ellison sat on the park bench with her hands folded over the strap of her purse. For a long moment, she did not answer. The late afternoon wind moved through the trees above them. Children were running somewhere behind the fountain. An elderly couple walked past with a grocery bag between them. Everything around her looked ordinary, peaceful, almost warm. Only Grace felt as if something inside her had been hollowed out. She had dated Mason for two years. He was twenty-nine this year. His parents had been urging him to settle down, and in the past few weeks, both families had started discussing marriage. At first, everything had seemed simple. They were not rich. They did not need a lavish wedding. Grace had never cared about diamonds or a grand ceremony. She had thought all she wanted was a decent man, a small home, and a future they could build honestly. Then they started talking about the apartment. And the wedding fund. And whose name would appear on the deed. “Grace,” Mason said again when she remained silent. She raised her eyes and looked at him. “I contributed twenty thousand dollars to the down payment. Why is the title going under your father’s name?” Mason froze for half a second. “If it were only under your name,” Grace continued, her voice calm enough that it surprised even herself, “I could at least understand the argument. But your father? We’re not even married yet, and your family is already arranging things as if you’re preparing for divorce.” Mason’s expression changed at once. “How can you think that? No one is preparing for divorce. Don’t make it sound so ugly. My parents just want peace of mind. They used almost everything they had to help us buy that apartment.” “They used thirty thousand,” Grace said. “I used twenty.” “That’s not the same thing.” “Why not?” “They’re my parents.” Grace almost laughed. She stared at the man sitting beside her, the man who used to remember how she liked her coffee, who used to show up with an umbrella when it rained, who used to text her good night every evening as if tenderness cost him nothing. Now she finally understood. Tenderness had cost him nothing. That was why he had given it so freely. Mason leaned closer, lowering his voice as if that made his words more reasonable. “Why do you always compare yourself to my parents? They’re older. They don’t have much income. The mortgage is nothing for you to worry about. I’ll handle it.” “You’ll handle it?” “Yes. You can stay home after we get married. Take care of the house. Help my parents. Later, when we have children, you can focus on them. Isn’t that better than exhausting yourself outside every day?” Grace’s fingers tightened around the strap of her purse. For a second, she could not breathe. “So let me understand this,” she said slowly. “I put in all my savings. My name isn’t on the deed. Your parents will move in. I quit my job to cook, clean, take care of them, raise future children, and depend on you for money.” Mason frowned. “Why are you saying it like that?” “How should I say it?” Grace looked at him. “That I spent everything I had to buy myself a job as an unpaid housekeeper?” His face darkened. “That’s not fair.” “Isn’t it?” “You know I’m doing this for us.” “For us?” Grace’s mouth curved, but there was no smile in it. “When your family said they couldn’t afford a proper wedding fund because they had bought the apartment, I didn’t ask for much. I asked for eighteen thousand as a gesture. Your mother said that amount would kill your whole family. Then you bargained it down to eight thousand eight hundred. I accepted it because I thought two years meant something.” Mason shifted uncomfortably. Grace kept speaking. Every word felt like pulling a thorn out of her own chest. “When your down payment was short, I took out everything I had. Half of that money came from my grandmother. The other half was what I saved by skipping meals, taking extra freelance work at night, and pretending I didn’t want things other women bought without thinking.” Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to continue. “And now your family wants the title under your father’s name. You want me to quit my job. Your parents want to move in. Tell me, Mason, where exactly do I exist in this marriage?” Mason reached for her hand. “Grace, don’t talk like that. We’ll get better. I’m about to be promoted. I’ll earn more. I’ll support you. I love you. I really want to marry you. Everything I’ve done has been for our future.” Grace looked down at his hand covering hers. Once, a gesture like that would have softened her. She would have told herself he was under pressure. She would have convinced herself his parents were simply traditional, that Mason loved her but was caught between two sides. She would have tried harder, compromised more, swallowed the discomfort until it became something she could mistake for peace. But there was a moment when the heart stopped lying to itself. Grace pulled her hand free and stood. “Did you think I didn’t want to marry you sincerely?” Mason looked up at her. “Then why are you—” “I did,” Grace interrupted. “But not anymore.” His face stiffened. She took out her phone, opened her banking app, and transferred back the eight thousand eight hundred dollars his family had sent as the wedding fund. The number on the screen looked almost ridiculous now. Two years of love had been weighed, bargained down, and stamped with that amount. A moment later, Mason’s phone buzzed. Grace put her phone away. “I returned the wedding money,” she said. “Now return the twenty thousand I contributed to the apartment. I’ll give you one month.” Mason stared at her, stunned. “Are you serious?” “Yes.” “We’ve been together for two years, and you’re breaking up with me over an apartment?” Grace felt the words land like a blade. Over an apartment. Not over disrespect. Not over manipulation. Not over being asked to surrender her savings, her work, her future, and her dignity. Just an apartment. “When did you become so materialistic?” Mason demanded. Grace swallowed the sharp pain rising in her throat. Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry in front of him. “Yes,” she said, each word steady. “I’m materialistic. So return my money within a month. Otherwise, we’ll settle it legally.” She turned and walked away. Mason grabbed her arm from behind. “Where am I supposed to get that kind of money? The apartment is already bought. Grace, don’t be like this.” “That’s your problem.” She pulled her arm free. “We’re over.” “Grace!” He followed her all the way to the road, still speaking, still pleading, still making it sound as though she were the unreasonable one. Grace raised her hand and stopped a taxi. The moment she got in and shut the door, Mason’s voice disappeared behind the glass. Only then did she close her eyes. The car pulled away. Through the rear window, Mason stood by the roadside with the bouquet of excuses he had carried for two years, his face no longer gentle. His features twisted with anger, almost unfamiliar. But perhaps that was his real face. Mason did not want to lose her. Not because he loved her too much. Because she had been cheap. Other women asked for large wedding settlements. Grace had not. Other women wanted expensive gifts, luxury bags, or a lavish ceremony. Grace had never asked. She was young, pretty, thrifty, and easy to please. She had even put her own money into the apartment. Where else could he find a woman like that? A woman who paid for her own cage and thanked him for calling it a home. Grace did not know exactly what Mason was thinking, but what she had already seen was enough. Her twenty thousand dollars had not fallen from the sky. Ten thousand had been left to her by her grandmother. The other ten thousand was saved from years of work, freelance writing, and quiet sacrifices. When she had handed that money over, she had truly believed she was helping build a future. Now she knew Mason’s family had been building something else entirely. A future where she had no name on the door. The taxi drove through the city, past storefronts and bus stops and glass office buildings glowing under the late afternoon sun. Grace pressed her fingers against her eyes until the tears went back where they came from. She would not cry over him. Not anymore. On the way home, she stopped by a fruit shop and bought a small bag of oranges and apples. She did not want to go back to her empty apartment yet. Instead, she went to visit George Prescott. George lived in the old walk-up apartment building across from hers. The building had no elevator, only narrow concrete stairs and handrails polished smooth by decades of use. When Grace’s grandmother had still been alive, George had often come over to sit with her, bringing fruit, soup, or whatever small thing he thought the two of them might need. After Grace’s grandmother passed away, George rarely went out. So Grace checked on him whenever she had time. She climbed to the second floor with the fruit in hand and knocked on his door. It took more than a minute before the door opened a c***k. When George saw her, his wrinkled face lit up. “Grace, you’re here.” He opened the door wide, leaning on his cane as he stepped aside. Grace smiled, forcing the last of her earlier pain into a quiet corner of her chest. “You said the bathroom pipe was leaking. I had some time today, so I came to take a look.” “Come in, come in.” She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. From the bathroom came the sound of running water. It stopped a few seconds later. Grace was about to ask whether the leak had gotten worse when she noticed there was someone else in the living room. A young woman sat on the sofa. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with curled hair, flawless makeup, and a cream-colored handbag resting beside her. Everything about her looked deliberate, from her polished nails to the faint disdain in her eyes as she glanced around George’s modest apartment. Grace paused. “George, you have a guest?” George opened his mouth, but the young woman spoke first. “I was just leaving.” She picked up her handbag and stood. “Mr. Prescott, since we both value our time, I’ll be direct.” Her gaze swept around the living room, lingering on the old furniture, the narrow hallway, the cracked edge of the coffee table. “Your grandson doesn’t even own an apartment. Is a wife supposed to squeeze into this old place with an entire family after marriage? If he wants to marry me, he needs at least a downtown condo, a proper car, and a six-figure wedding fund. If he can provide that, we can talk. If not, there’s no point wasting each other’s time.” George’s face stiffened. “Miss Cole,” he began, clearly embarrassed, “perhaps we can—” Before he could finish, a calm male voice came from the direction of the bathroom. “Miss Cole, you may have misunderstood something.” Grace turned. The voice was low, cool, and carried no anger at all. “I never said I wanted to marry you.”