Chapter 1
While we were finalizing our divorce, I posted a question on Instagram: [What should I do if the puppy I brought home refuses to wear a collar?]
Less than two hours after I posted it, my ex-husband, Jordan Wilkinson, burst in.
He was clutching a pink collar tightly, his eyes red.
"Where is he?" he demanded.
I looked at him, confused. "Who?"
"The puppy from your post. Where is he?" he pressed.
I put down the dog food and pointed at the balcony without a second thought. "In the cage."
Jordan was instantly thrown off.
"You guys are really that kinky?" he blurted out.
I was confused.
He dropped to the ground in front of me, looking like he was about to break down any second.
"If he won't wear it, I'll do it. Can we please not get divorced?" he pleaded.
I was shocked.
*****
On the thirteenth day of finalizing our divorce, I made a post on Instagram.
The picture was of a pink collar.
The caption read: [What should I do if the puppy I brought home refuses to wear a collar?]
Less than two hours after I posted it, someone started pounding on my door.
I put down the dog food and took my time heading to answer the door.
As soon as I cracked the door open, a hand shot in and grabbed the doorframe.
I looked up and saw a familiar face.
It was Jordan.
He was my ex-husband.
He was a big shot in Ulgarin's high society, the sole heir to the Wilkinson Group.
He was the wildest of the spoiled rich kids. His dad literally had to drag him to his own wedding.
He stood at my door, hair a mess, two buttons on his shirt done up wrong, his eyes as red as a rabbit's.
He was still clutching a pink collar tightly in his hand.
"Where is he?" he demanded.
I looked at him, confused. "Who?"
"The puppy from your post. Where is he?" he pressed.
I pointed toward the balcony. "In the cage."
He looked in the direction I pointed.
Then he froze.
Three seconds later, he suddenly dropped to the floor.
He did it with so much force.
The sound of his knees hitting the marble floor made me wince. It sounded painful.
He looked up at me, tears swirling in his eyes, like he was about to fall apart any second.
"Are you really that kinky?" he blurted out.
I was confused.
Before I could even process what was happening, he grabbed my hand.
Jordan said, "Let me do it. If he won't wear it, I will. I can be your puppy.
"Can we not get divorced?"
I stared down at him, speechless for three seconds.
Then I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo of him.
"What are you doing?" he asked, looking totally lost.
"Getting some proof. So you can't say I photoshopped this and set you up when you sober up tomorrow," I replied.
He stared at me, stunned.
From the balcony, a tiny puppy barked, sounding adorably soft.
He turned to look over.
A scruffy little pup poked its head out of the cage and let out a soft, milk-sounding bark at him.
Jordan stayed on the ground, frozen like a statue.
"Wait, the puppy you mentioned is an actual dog?" Jordan stammered.
"What else would it be?" I replied.
I leaned against the doorframe. "What did you think I meant?"
His face turned bright red right in front of me.
His neck went red, then his ears, and finally his forehead.
By the end, he was as red as a boiled shrimp.
"I..." Jordan stammered.
He didn't know what to say.
I crouched down so we were eye to eye.
"Jordan, there are still seventeen days left before we officially get a divorce. Are you sure you want to spend them like this?" I asked.
He looked at me, his eyes getting even redder.
"I don't want the divorce. I changed my mind," he said.
I laughed.
I said, "Jordan, you were the one who said this was a business deal, that we both got what we needed, and not to expect any love.
"You remember saying that, don't you?"
His face went from red to pale.
"I..." he stammered.
I pressed, "You said you were only twenty and didn't want to be tied down by marriage.
"You said that I should play the perfect Mrs. Wilkinson and not meddle in your private affairs. You remember saying that, too?"
His lips started to tremble.
"Tilda..." Jordan whispered, his voice shaky.
"And another thing..." I went on.
I stood up, looking down at him from above.
I said, "When your first love came back, you disappeared for a whole month.
"I asked for a divorce, and you signed the papers without even hesitating. You remember all that, right?"
He stayed on the floor, head tilted up.
At last, his tears broke free and rolled down his cheeks.
Jordan choked out, "I messed up.
"I really messed up.
"Baby, you can hit me, curse me, and do whatever you want. Please, don't leave me."
From the balcony, the adorable little pup let out another soft, milky bark.
Three years ago, when I married Jordan, I knew what this marriage was all about.
It was a business arrangement.
My dad's company was facing a cash flow crisis and urgently needed the Wilkinson Group to invest.
The Wilkinson Group needed a marriage to reassure their shareholders and hopefully rein in the unruly Jordan.
We both got what we needed.
On our wedding day, Jordan looked pissed off the entire time.
When it was time for the vows, the officiant asked, "Mr. Jordan Wilkinson, do you take Tilda Adams as your wife?"
He was silent for three seconds, then gave a sarcastic laugh.
"Of course I do. My dad wants it, my mom wants it, and my grandpa wants it. How could I not?" he replied.
The whole venue fell utterly silent.
I stood across from him in my white wedding gown, a graceful smile fixed on my face.
Inside, I was completely numb.
I'd known this would happen for ages. There was no need to be upset.
That night, he never even showed up in our room.
The next morning, I came downstairs for breakfast and saw him sitting at the table, looking as grim as I did on the wedding.
"So, you're Tilda Adams," he said.
He gave me a cold, hard stare.
"Let's lay it all out," he said.
I sat down and poured myself a glass of milk.
"Say it," I told him.
He said, "My dad forced me into this marriage. I didn't want it.
"I'm only twenty, still want to have my fun. You can be a trouphy Mrs. Wilkinson and stay out of my business.
"In front of others, we put on a show. At home, we each do our own thing.
"Don't expect any love from me. But you'll get all the money you want."
He finished talking, waiting to see how I'd respond.
I took a sip of my milk and nodded.
I said, "Sure."
His face froze. He clearly didn't expect me to go along with it.
"You seriously don't mind?" he stammered.
I said, setting down my glass, "No objections. We both get what we need. That works for me."
He looked at me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
"You really..." he started.
I cut him off, "Mr. Wilkinson, I'm not clueless. You live your life, and I'll live mine. Give me a heads-up when you need me to show up."
He was silent for a few seconds, then got up and walked away.
As he reached the door, Jordan suddenly paused.
"Tilda, you'd better really mean it," Jordan said.
I watched him walk away, a small smile tugging at my lips.
Of course, I meant it.
Love could not save my dad's company.
It could not pay off the bank loans.
But the Wilkinson family's money could.
From that day on, I started playing the perfect Mrs. Wilkinson.
In public, I played the graceful wife. I was always polite and always looking after Jordan.
At home, we slept in separate rooms and did our own thing.
Sometimes we'd run into each other in the hallway. He and I would nod, then walk past each other.
It was like we were strangers sharing an apartment.
That was how it went for two whole years.
For those two years, Jordan saw me as a "convenient marriage tool."
But there was so much he didn't know.
He had no clue that every time he got drunk and stayed out late, I was the one calling his assistant to make sure he got home safe.
He didn't know that whenever his stomach acted up, I'd get up in the middle of the night to make him some oatmeal, leave it outside his door, and slip away without him ever knowing.
He didn't know that every time his mom came by to check on him, I was the one covering for him, saying he was "working in his study."
He didn't know that I was the one who handled the debts his rich playboy friends racked up.
Back when my dad's company was drowning in debt, I learned all the tricks for dealing with debt collectors.
Jordan had no idea.
All he knew was that his wife wasn't naggy or clingy, and that was fine by him.
One time, he actually stayed home for dinner. It was a rare occasion.
I cooked up a few dishes.
After he finished eating, he set down his fork and actually said something nice, "This tastes pretty good."
I smiled. "As long as it suits your taste."
He glanced at me and suddenly asked, "Did you actually take cooking classes?"
I was caught off guard for a moment.
"No. I just threw it together," I replied.
He didn't say anything else, got up and walked away.
He had no idea I'd tracked down the Wilkinson family's old chef and spent a whole month learning how to make pulled pork.
I made it over thirty times before I finally nailed the flavor.
He had no idea how I figured out what he liked.
Because whenever his mom came over, I'd overhear her say, "Jordan's been a picky eater since he was a kid. He only likes pulled pork made by our family's old chef."
There was so much he didn't know.
He thought I was some rich wife who only knew how to spend money.
But he had no idea that half the reason my dad's company was still standing today was because of me.
While he was out partying, I was buried in financial reports, analyzing the market, and closing deals.
While he was out racing at the track, I was busy cleaning up his messes.
One time, he stumbled in at three in the morning, totally wasted.
I was reading in the living room and glanced up at him.
He leaned against the doorframe, squinting at me.
"Tilda, who the hell are you?" he slurred.
I set down my book. "Your wife."
He laughed, a strange, almost confused laugh.
"Wife?" he echoed.
He repeated the word, then shook his head.
"Doesn't seem like it," he muttered.
"How am I not?" I shot back.
He mulled it over for a while, then finally said, "Every other woman wants to keep me on a leash, but you don't.
"Don't you want my money?"
"Sure, I want your money. Just not interested in controlling you," I replied.
He paused for a few seconds, then his laughter got even louder, almost helpless.
"Interesting. This is so interesting," Jordan said.
That night, for the first time ever, he actually stuck around in the living room for a whole hour.
We didn't say a word. He drank. I read.
After one o'clock, he finally got up and staggered toward his room.
As he reached the door, he suddenly turned back.
"Tilda," Jordan called out.
"Yes?" I answered.
"Goodnight," he said.
It was the first time he'd ever said that to me.