The Don's purchase

Paper Gods

The rain hadn’t let up all morning. It was as if the universe was on the same page with my mood. It drummed against the windows with a rhythm too deliberate to ignore. The kind of rain that didn’t ask for permission—just seeped into everything. It filled the silence with something just loud enough to muffle guilt and expensive lies.

The house was still. Sarah had gone grocery shopping. Wilbet, by some small miracle, had vanished hours earlier, muttering something about a board meeting and urgent calls. I didn’t care. All I wanted was silence.

And the library—smug, dark, and lined with leather-bound delusions, Wilbet’s might I add—was the one place no one would dare look for me. The kind of room that existed for appearances, not use. The scent of old paper and wood was reassuring, if I didn’t think too hard about it.

I ran a hand along the spines until I found a familiar title. The Economics of Prestige. Typical.

Wilbet loved to decorate shelves with things he didn’t read. As if intellect could be bought and dusted. The fool.

I tugged it out and turned it over. That’s when it happened.

A soft thud. A cream envelope slipped from its pages, landing softly on the floor. Curious, I bent to retrieve it.

No stamp. Just the embossed seal of Camden & Lyne Private Banking Group—a name that whispered old money, confidentiality, and quiet ruin.

I turned the envelope over. No seal. Already opened. I should’ve left it alone. But I didn’t.

The letter inside was short. Almost insultingly so.

“FINAL NOTICE Mr. Gregory, As of the date below, your outstanding balance of $20,000,000.00 remains unpaid.

Failure to comply will result in asset liquidation as per clause 8b of your signed agreement. We have initiated the valuation process on the properties listed under your collateral, including but not limited to: 44 Rivington Place, Mayfair 3-acre Grafton Estate, Surrey The Bentley Continental GT (black) Holdings listed under joint marital ownership: ‘A. Gregory’

We urge you to make contact with our office within the next 72 hours. Our discretion cannot be guaranteed beyond this window.

Sincerely, Compliance Officer Camden & Lyne”

The room tilted for a second. I sat down—more like collapsed—onto a nearby chair.

Joint marital ownership. Me.

I read it again. Then a third time. As if the numbers would shift. As if I’d misunderstood. As if twenty million was just a clerical error, the way you forget a decimal point in an email.

But no. Twenty. Million. f*****g. Dollars.

It wasn’t gambling. It wasn’t a bad stock. This wasn’t carelessness. This was ruin—wrapped in crisp, legal font. And I was in it. All the way up to my signature.

This has to be some type of mistake Wilbet was careless yes but surely he couldn't be this reckless right?

My name was listed as collateral. I was a placeholder. A pawn. A possession. A token, lodged between a sports car and a country estate.

The file folder wedged beneath the envelope caught my eye. I pulled it free, fingers cold and stiff.

Inside were more documents. Signed agreements. Copies of wire transfers. All naming Wilbet. All ending with that same signature in his arrogant, looping scrawl.

I flipped through them, stomach tightening with every page.

The Mayfair flat. Sold. The Grafton estate. Transferred. Half the cars, gone. Some of the art—my art—apparently auctioned off “privately.”

There were notes scribbled in the margins, messy and impatient.

“Talk to Cass about silent investors.” “Paris flat = fallback if Aziza’s name is removed.” “Option to convert vault into liquid asset—confirm value.”

Then I saw it. A handwritten list. In Wilbet’s unmistakable pen.

“If push comes to shove: Aziza’s jewels The Hermès collection The wine vault Sell the wedding china Ask Cass if the Paris flat can be discreetly mortgaged Talk to him about the fallback clause.”

My hand trembled slightly. Not rage. Not panic. Recognition.

That I had been a fool to turn a blind eye to our finances. That I was even more foolish to not realize Cassandra was in the background. What even did she have to do with this?

The documents lay on the rug, but the truth remained the same: we were done for.

How could I have been so blind to not notice how Wilbet had one silly excuse after another for the disappearance of a car or a piece of art?

My gaze drifted, unfocused, to the crackling fireplace—not for warmth, but for grounding. My ears rang with something far colder than the storm outside.

And suddenly, a voice rose from the fog of memory.

Malcolm Laurent. That long, slow dinner at their estate a couple days ago. The oysters. The claret. The glint in Malcolm’s eye—not flirtatious, but calculated.

“I think you’re smart enough to know when the building’s on fire. And strong enough to walk out before it burns.”

I had dismissed it then as arrogance. But now? I knew better.

No wonder Wilbet had practically thrown himself at the opportunity to attend their dinner. That night, Wilbet had made a fool of himself—too much wine, too many boasts, and that ridiculous story about the charity gala we had attended. Earlier I’d been mortified, ashamed even. But now I saw it differently.

He hadn’t been showing off. He’d been auditioning. Throwing glitter over a corpse.

Drowning in debt and desperate for a lifeboat. And maybe—just maybe—Malcolm had been one. Or worse, Malcolm had been circling like a vulture. And Wilbet had known it.

God, it made sense. He had something to lose—and he was losing it fast.

And me? I was collateral. Not just financially, but socially. A beautiful woman with just enough social currency to be palatable at parties. And just naïve enough, he’d hoped, to sign what needed signing.

Something he could easily give away if something went wrong.

A wave of nausea rolled through me. I stood, forcing my legs to cooperate, and returned to the shelf. My fingers fumbled through the documents again, searching for something, anything, that resembled a plan.

Because if he’d mortgaged everything, if he’d risked not just the house but my identity—then what was next? What did he have in store?

Would he fake a bankruptcy and disappear? Drag me through a divorce so messy I couldn’t claw my name out of the mud? Or worse—convince me to publicly stand beside him as he weaseled his way into Laurent money, Laurent alliances, Laurent silence?

A cold thought struck me.

What if this whole marriage—this entire curated life—had only ever been a performance leading to this very moment?

I pressed my hands to the shelf to steady myself. It couldn't be. Mother would have not allowed it.

How would I get out? That question rang louder than any other.

I could leave, yes. But where? The Paris flat might already be under review.

Staying with Cassandra wasn't an option. I'd rather eat hot coal than live with Mother.

I couldn't even decide to sue or leave him—my attorney was a Wilbet recommendation, for chrissake.

No. Not yet. I need time.

I'd have to be careful. Selective. Above all, I had to pretend.

Pretend not to know. Pretend to love him. Pretend that I was still the naïve wife polishing the silver while the house burned around her.

Because if Wilbet found out I knew—really knew—what he’d done? He might not let me leave at all.