The Transactional Marriage: Her Bitter Ascent

The first time my husband, Gregory, chose a billion-dollar deal over my father' s funeral, I knew our marriage was a transaction. But when he started canceling meetings for an actress named Kennedy, I realized he was capable of love-just not for me.

Then came the whispers of his devotion: buying her a theater, brawling with a director who criticized her. My investigation led to a "warning"-a hit-and-run that left me hospitalized. His assistant's message was chilling: "Accidents do happen."

At the police station, after he'd been in another fight for her, Kennedy pointed at me and wailed, "Make her kneel! Make her apologize for breathing the same air as us!"

Gregory' s cold eyes met mine.

"Christie," he commanded, his voice deadly quiet. "Kneel."

Chapter 1

The first time Gregory chose a billion-dollar deal over my father' s funeral, I knew our marriage was a transaction. Five years later, I still hadn't learned the lesson.

That day, the crisp autumn air had stung my lungs, but not as much as the silence from Gregory. He had been away on a business trip. A deal, he' d called it. A billion-dollar deal. While my world crumbled, his expanded. He hadn't even sent flowers.

"He's a Wall Street tycoon, Christie," my mother had said, her voice strained. "They live by a different code."

I had nodded, accepting it. Our marriage was a strategic alliance, a merger of two powerful families. Love wasn't part of the prospectus.

My birthdays were always quiet affairs. I'd cook a simple meal, maybe open a bottle of wine. Gregory would send a generic text, always signed by his assistant. One year, he sent a diamond necklace. It arrived with a note: "For Mrs. Henson. From Gregory." It felt like a receipt, not a gift.

The car accident was different. Not a grand, public humiliation, but a quiet terror. My car had spun out on an icy patch, hitting a guardrail. The impact jarred every bone in my body.

I was bleeding, disoriented. My first thought, my foolish, desperate first thought, was Gregory.

I called him. My voice was shaky, barely a whisper. "Gregory, I... I had an accident."

There was a pause. A long, sterile silence. Then, his voice, flat and unfeeling. "Is it critical, Christie? I'm in a crucial meeting."

"I... I don't know," I stammered, pain lancing through my ribs. "I think I'm hurt."

"Send my assistant the details," he said, already sounding impatient. "She'll arrange everything."

Then, the line went dead. No "Are you okay?" No "I'm coming." Just cold, efficient dismissal.

When my grandmother fell ill, her last days were spent in a sterile hospital room. I sat by her side, holding her frail hand. Gregory was on another continent, negotiating another deal. He didn't even call. When she passed, a part of me went with her. It wasn't just grief for her, but for the hope I once harbored.

That' s when I truly understood. Gregory didn' t prioritize his financial