The Reality
It turned out my husband wasn't a freelance analyst. He was the "V" in Vane Global Holdings. The "humble" apartment we lived in? He owned the entire building. The rusted hatchback? A sentimental gift from his grandfather that he refused to part with.
"So," I whispered, looking at the sparkling champagne towers and the million-dollar paintings on the walls. "Are we... rich?"
Julian leaned in, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Technically? We're 'buy-a-small-island' rich. But I still want that pizza for dinner tomorrow."
"Wealth is quiet. Litter is loud." — A lesson I learned while wearing a thrifted dress in a room full of diamonds.