I married my friend’s rich grandfather for his inheritance. On our wedding night, he looked at me and said, “Now that you’re my wife, I can finally tell you the truth.”

“You notice the price of everything before the beauty,” he once said.

“Because price determines what remains beautiful,” I replied.

He smiled slightly.

“That’s either wisdom or sadness.” “Probably both.”

Violet noticed the connection.

“Grandpa likes you,” she said.

“He likes it when I say thank you,” I joked.

But one night, Rick asked something unexpected:

Have you ever considered getting married for security reasons?

I thought it was a joke.

It wasn’t.

“Are you asking me to marry you?”, I asked.

“Try.”

That should have been the moment I left.

Instead, I asked why.

“Because I trust you more than I trust my own family,” he said.

When I told Violet, everything changed.

She didn’t laugh.

“I thought you had more self-esteem,” she said softly. “But you’re just like everyone else.”

That hurt more than anything.

“Pride is expensive,” I replied. “You had the privilege of keeping yours.”

She sent me away.

So I did.

Three weeks later, I married her grandfather.

The wedding was small, expensive, and uncomfortable.

There was a fifty-year age difference—and no romance.

Violet didn’t even look at me.