He Put a Price on Love, So I Walked Away Chapter 1

The night my mother was pushed into the ICU, Vincent DeLuca said,

"Elena, you only have one request left this year."

I had been married into the DeLuca family for seven years, and he had made the rule himself:

ten requests a year, ten minutes each. Anything beyond that would be charged at one thousand dollars a minute.

When my car broke down on the Brooklyn overpass, I called him. That counted as one.

When I had a fever of 102 and could not find where the household medicine was kept, I called him. That counted as one too.

But when his female assistant, Claire Vale, moved apartments, fixed her computer, or lost her keys at the nightclub office in the middle of the night, all she had to do was say sweetly, "Mr. Vincent, I messed up again," and he would go to her immediately with his men.

I used my last free request to ask him to contact the best cardiac intervention specialist in New York.

Then I caught his sleeve and asked, "Can you stay with me for another twenty minutes?"

He did not refuse.

The next day, Claire brought me a bill for twenty thousand dollars.

I took off the matching watch he had given me when we got married, sold it for twenty-five thousand, and transferred the money over.

This time, I would never ask him for help again.

...

After the twenty thousand dollars was transferred, Claire sent me a payment confirmation.

"Miss Rossi, the payment has been verified."

"Mr. DeLuca asked me to send you the records for confirmation, so the accounts won't be unclear later."

I opened the file. My finger stopped on the screen.

On the first page was a summary:

[Ten emergency requests have been registered this year. Remaining free requests: zero.]

At the end, there was another note:

[Recommendation: Madam should improve her ability to handle matters independently and reduce emotionally driven emergency demands.]

I stared at that sentence and replied with two words:

[Received.]

The caregiver messaged me, saying my mother, Rosa, had just had her medication changed and asking me to return to the hospital as soon as possible.

I turned off my phone and went to the hospital with my bag.

Outside the ICU, the caregiver saw me and handed over a stack of payment notices.

"Mr. DeLuca's assistant called and asked the hospital to send daily expense details to the family office email."

"She also asked about caregiver fees and follow-up treatment costs."

I took the papers. "I understand."

The caregiver asked, "Will Mr. DeLuca come tonight?"

"He's busy," I said without thinking.

When the nurse checked the inpatient account, she asked, "Are you the only family member? The patient may need many documents signed later."

I tightened my grip on the payment notices and nodded.

The nurse did not ask anything else. She pushed the papers toward me.

"Pay this part first. If anything changes, we'll contact you."

I went outside the ward to pick up a change of clothes. My mother's coat was draped over a chair.

In the pocket was a strip of stomach medicine, with a note pressed underneath.

[Vincent has stomach trouble. Take this after meals. Don't let him keep drinking black coffee on an empty stomach.]

My mother always said, "Vincent manages such a large family. Don't keep rushing him. If he promised, he will come."

The handwriting on the note was unsteady.

The caregiver stood beside me and said quietly, "Mrs. Rosa went to the DeLuca family office a few days ago."

I looked up.

"What did she go there for?"

"She said Mr. DeLuca's stomach had acted up before, so she wanted to bring him the medicine."

"The men at the door wouldn't let her upstairs. Later, Miss Claire came down and took the medicine."

The note in my hand crumpled.

"She said Mr. DeLuca has been very busy lately and told Mrs. Rosa not to keep bringing things to the family office."

"After hearing that, Mrs. Rosa left. She also told me not to tell you, saying you had already been tired enough taking care of her."

I put the stomach medicine and the note into my bag.

That night, I went back to the DeLuca house to get clothes.

Claire had posted an update.

In the photo, Vincent was standing outside a furniture store with shopping bags in his hand.

Claire held a table lamp and smiled at the camera.

The caption read:

[Sir said that when a place is comfortable to live in, people won't overthink.]

I turned off my phone screen.

The study door was half open. Vincent had the call on speaker, and Claire's timid voice came clearly through the crack.

"I live alone in the new apartment. At night, I always feel uneasy."

"Mr. Vincent, what if the heating breaks again?"

Vincent said, "If the building manager can't handle it, call me. Don't struggle with it yourself."

"Wouldn't that trouble you too much?"

"You just moved in. There are many things you're unfamiliar with."

I stood outside the door and remembered the night my mother was pushed into the ICU, when I asked him whether he could stay with me for twenty minutes.

The first thing he asked was how many requests I had left.

After Vincent hung up, he came out and reached for my bag.

I stepped aside.

"I'll carry it myself."

His hand stopped. His eyes fell on my wrist.

"Where is the watch?"

"Sold."

"Just to spite me?"

I looked at him and, for the first time, did not explain.

It was also in that moment that I decided to end this marriage.