Everyone thought I married Richard for his money.
They weren’t entirely wrong.
I was thirty-two years old, drowned in debt and only a lost salary from being left without an apartment.
Richard was seventy-three, rich, widowed, and lonely in a way that wealthy people sometimes try to hide behind marble floors, expensive clocks, and huge houses.
We met at a charity dinner where I served champagne.
He asked me what my name was.
Then he looked at me and asked:
“Have you been standing all night? Your feet must hurt.”
It was such a simple question.
But no man had asked me for years if I was tired.
Three months later, Richard proposed to me.
My friends
thought I had lost my mind.
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His children were even less kind.“Do you really think you’re going to keep this house?”, her daughter Rebecca whispered to me after the wedding. “You won’t receive anything.”
