I married my best friend’s wealthy grandfather for financial security—and on our wedding night, he looked at me and said, “Now that you’re my wife… I can finally tell you the truth.” I was never the pretty one. Not at school. Not anywhere. The kind of girl people look at unless they’re laughing. An awkward smile, uncomfortable posture, always slightly out of place—too quiet or too much at the wrong moment. By high school, I had accepted it—no one was ever going to fall in lo …

“That’s all I’m trying to do, decide who will betray me less,” I replied.

This was the start of an odd chain of events. From then on, Rick started inviting me over even without Violet around. His candor was both exhilarating and frightening for me. He paid attention to what I had to say. He remembered the little details that I mentioned to him casually.

“Money comes before beauty,” he once commented one afternoon as we strolled through his gardens.

“That’s because money dictates what remains beautiful, Rick,” I retorted, remembering the peeling wallpaper in my apartment. “Beauty is a luxury, security a miracle.”

He smiled. It was a smile rarely seen from him and was more like a thin lifting of the corners of his lips. “Either profound or profound.”

“In my experience,” I said, “both.”

Of course, Violet noticed the connection. At first, she looked like she was having fun at this realization. “Grandpa thinks you’re great,” she informed me while we were having coffee. “He normally finds everyone utterly boring. He just loves that you’re the only one who says thank you to the staff and no to him.”

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The fun didn’t last long, however. On a rainy Tuesday, Rick invited me into his library for an extremely unusual question.

“Layla, have you ever thought of marrying for security?”

I laughed. I really laughed. I waited for the joke, but there wasn’t any laughter in the room except for mine, as I listened to the raindrops beat against the leaded windows.

“Are you actually making me an offer here?” I stammered.