I married an older woman for money—after her funeral, her lawyer handed me a box that revealed what I truly signed up for

bought me.

Claire, Evie’s niece, saw it first.

“Of course you wore that.”

“It’s cold.”

“No. You still know how to use her.”

“I was her husband.”

“You were her project.”

That hit harder than gold digger because part of me knew it was true.

But under the shame, one thought kept pushing forward.

The will.

The next morning, I sat across continue reading …