Chapter 1

The dog I'd raised for eight years was dying. The surgery was thirty-five hundred dollars.

My husband, Burton Gilbert, tossed the payment slip aside.

"It's just an animal. Buy another one and be done with it. Why throw money away."

He turned and told the attending vet to stop treatment. Put the dog down instead.

That afternoon I got the call from the clinic to come collect the body, and I fell apart.

Burton only said,

"A mutt like that's worth nothing. I'll get you a new one later."

Three days after that, his secretary Shelagh Henson's cat got fixed.

He booked a VIP recovery room, had cases of imported cans hauled in, dropped nearly a thousand dollars start to finish.

Burton posted a grid of nine photos on his feed, captioned,

"Fur babies deserve to be spoiled."

In the pictures Shelagh held the big orange cat while he carefully offered it water beside her, gentle as a completely different man.

I scrolled through those nine photos, then looked down at the small stiff body in my arms.

And suddenly I understood what worth nothing meant.

...

On my phone, under Secretary Henson's post, Burton was still replying, eager as anything.

"Keep him warm after the surgery. Soak the cans in warm water first."

"No need to thank me. I did claim the big orange as my godson."

I swiped past them one by one, my eyes dry and aching.

What kept flashing through my head was the way he'd frowned when he heard the treatment cost.

"Thirty-five hundred is enough for three purebreds."

He hadn't even looked up then, thumbing at his phone.

"It's just an animal. Raise another one and be done. You really have to fight me over money?"

And now here he was, calling somebody else's cat his godson, one breath after another.

Pouring his heart out, throwing money around, all but tattooing spoil them across his forehead for the world to see.

That night, as Burton's wife, I went with him to the company party.

"Victoria Gutierrez."

A young woman's voice drifted over from the side.

I turned. His secretary, Shelagh Henson, was coming toward me, the freshly neutered orange cat cradled in her arms.

"Mr. Gilbert really is so good to him," she said.

Her voice was sweet to the point of cloying. She dipped her head and nuzzled the cat.

"He booked Little Orange a VIP room, post-op care, imported cans, even picked out the blanket himself. He said his godson getting fixed was a big deal, no cutting corners."

Then she looked up and gave Burton a sugary little smile.

"Right, Godpapa? You're so good to our boy."

I thought back to when I'd tried to pay the dog's bill, and the look on his face while he blocked me, saying an animal wasn't worth it.

Now the money was going to somebody else's cat, and he hadn't blinked.

I heard myself laugh, once.

"He does make a pretty decent godfather."

A male coworker sidled over and clapped Burton on the shoulder.

"Burton, if you're this devoted to a godson, your own kid's going to be spoiled rotten someday, huh?"

Then he turned to me, grinning wide.

"When are you two having a baby? Burton'll be even more generous then, bet on it!"

Every eye in the room swung to me at once.

Burton didn't answer. He just lifted his drink, took a sip, and gave me one flat look.

That old irritation in it.

He probably figured I was about to start sulking again, feeling sorry for myself, or using the moment to ask him for something.

But this time, I said it calmly.

"We'll see how it goes."

The truth was, I'd always wanted a child.

When we married we had no money. No wedding, we just got the marriage license.

That night, drunk, he'd held me and said,

"Once the project wraps next year, let's go somewhere, take our time, do the honeymoon we missed."

But after that the projects came one after another, and the honeymoon got pushed back year after year.

Something about it struck Burton as odd, but he didn't dwell on it. He shifted his attention back to the cat, tickling it under the chin.

"Our boy's recovering nicely today, isn't he? Let Godpapa have a look..."

He pinched a paw and gave it a gentle little shake.

"Mm. Plenty of energy."

Shelagh nudged the cat closer to his hand.

"Of course. With his godpapa doting on him, how could our boy not bounce right back?"

Burton smiled and drew his hand back. Then, as if something had just occurred to him, he spoke with a pointed edge.

"A cat turns out well because the person raising it turns out well."

"Not like some people..."

His voice dropped.

"Ready to die over a dog. Thirty-five hundred, just like that. Did you ever think about this household? I was saving you money and you turned on me over it."

Shelagh, holding the cat, let the corner of her mouth curve up a fraction.

"Mr. Gilbert, don't say that. Victoria was just close to the dog. Only natural she couldn't take it for a bit."

"Close to it?"

Burton scoffed.

"Being close to it means you get to ignore your family? I made the call for her and she thinks I'm cold-blooded. The dog's gone and she's living just fine, isn't she?"

A few of the coworkers nearby nodded along.

"Burton's right. Running a household, you spend where it counts."

"Exactly, exactly. Don't blame Burton, he was looking out for your family too."

Everyone was waiting for me to speak, watching to see whether I'd argue with red eyes or bow my head and back down.

No one had asked how I felt.

I drew a slow breath and, ignoring the startled looks, walked out of the hall.

Behind me came Shelagh's soft little cry.

"Oh no, Mr. Gilbert, did I say something wrong and upset Victoria?"