I remembered how, when I'd first been brought back to the Gilbert household, she was the only person who hadn't mocked me or looked at me with contempt. That small seed of affection in my chest couldn't help but bloom.

I said yes. And with that, I began over three thousand days of quiet misery.

Outside of our wedding night and the occasional crisis at the company, Greta never shared a room with me. She said she was naturally frigid and told me not to be disgusting by always thinking about sex.

So I respected her wishes. I held myself back, never once crossing the line.

But on too many late nights, I watched from the window as Melvin walked Greta to our front door. The two of them holding hands, embracing, and not once did either of them seem to remember that I was her husband.

Years of turning a blind eye hadn't earned me Greta's heart. If anything, it only emboldened her.

Her expression twisted. "Victor, wasn't all of that your own choice? Did I ever force you? Didn't you say you loved me? If you love me, why keep score?"

Melvin shook his head at me. "Victor, real love doesn't ask for anything in return. It doesn't keep a tally. The fact that you're counting every little thing proves you don't deserve to use the word 'love.'"

Between the two of them, in just a few sentences, they'd painted me as some petty, scheming lowlife.

Hearing Melvin's words, Greta's lips curled into a sneer.

"Victor, nine years ago you were nothing but a castoff about to be thrown out of the family. If I hadn't taken you in, you'd probably still be digging through trash somewhere. You gambled on me making a comeback, didn't you? Well, congratulations, your bet paid off. What more could you possibly want?"

My heart went cold. Completely, irreversibly cold.

Images from nine years ago flooded my mind, from when I'd first been brought back to the Gilbert family.

Melvin had wanted to humiliate me. He'd paid to get photos from my years in the countryside: pictures of people shoving my face into garbage, slapping me around. He played them on a screen at our parents' investor gala for everyone to see.

Every wretched, degrading frame, burned into every pair of eyes in that room.

I wanted to run. I was so ashamed I could barely stand.

It was Greta who caught my hand.

"They're the ones who hurt you. They should be the ones drowning in shame, not you."