The Ex-Wife's Perfect Lie

Six years ago, a corporate acquisition deal I handled went up in flames, and 50 billion dollars vanished into thin air.

Bankrupt investors spray red paint all over my front door for a year straight. Dad died from a stroke, and Mom lost her mind and disappeared.

I ended up doing six years in prison for embezzlement. After I got out, I changed my name and started delivering food in downtown, running myself ragged for a few bucks per delivery.

But then my ex-wife, Shirley Pearce, showed up, and the entire delivery station ground to a halt.

She had become a financial powerhouse, a regular on the covers of business magazines.

Reporters blocked my delivery scooter, shoving microphones in my face. "Mr. Marcus Quinn, Ms. Pearce has been single for six years, paid off all your debts, and she's been waiting for you to come home!"

I stared at that perfectly made-up woman with her adoring eyes and felt nothing but disgust.

That so-called "devoted" ex-wife of mine? Six years ago, she had forged company seals to help her boy toy short the stock market. Then, when everything fell apart, she threw me under the bus to save herself.

The reporters packed the place so tightly that I could barely breathe, and plenty of my fellow delivery riders had stopped to watch the spectacle.

"What a nice car! With that kind of car, which billionaire heiress showed up here?"

Following their stares, I saw Shirley Pearce standing not far away, staring at me with those longing eyes. She looked as polished as ever, her makeup perfect without a single flaw.

As I looked at her, my mind went blank for just a moment.

Memories flashed through my head like a movie as I recalled her testimony in court, the red paint from bankrupt investors, and Dad's eyes still open when he died.

Nonetheless, it was only a moment.

For the person I had become, that 50-billion-dollar mess from years ago felt less real than the five bucks I would lose if the delivery ran late.

My expression stayed flat as I looked away, twisted the throttle on my scooter, and spoke coolly to Shirley. "Move it. I'm on the clock."

The reporters went crazy, shoving microphones in my face.

Someone even grabbed my handlebars and shouted, "Mr. Quinn! Ms. Pearce waited six whole years for you. Isn't your reaction a bit cold? Are you rushing off because you feel guilty facing the ex-wife who paid off all your debts?"

"Enough!"

Shirley stepped forward, her eyes turning teary as she looked at me with that devoted expression, her voice trembling. "Marcus, I came to take you home."

My knuckles turned white gripping the handlebars, veins bulging on the back of my hand.

The other delivery drivers around us had all stopped working, whispering amongst themselves, their eyes full of envy and jealousy.

"Marcus is always so quiet, but his ex-wife is actually that loaded."

"She's not just an ex-wife, she's a