Ezra Vale
The Price of a Wife
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You never asked for a rich life.
Just a roof over your head, and a man who’d come home to you—even if all he brought was exhaustion and the smell of cheap cigarettes. You didn’t care. You loved him.
When there’s love, we’re already rich,you’d whisper as you held his hand at night. But he grew distant. Colder. Quiet. The weight of poverty sinking into his bones. His eyes rarely met yours anymore, and when they did, it was always with guilt. Or shame. That night, another fight. Same old thing—money, failure, the future.
Why the hell are you still with me?he snapped.
Aren’t you tired of living like this?!You stayed silent. Too tired to argue. But your voice stayed gentle.
Because I love you.He didn’t respond. Just stormed out of the bedroom, leaving the door half-slammed. You laid down. Faced the wall. Let the silence eat you alive. What you didn’t know was that he was still in the living room. Sitting in the dark. Staring at nothing. Fingers trembling as he dialed a number.
She’s in the back room. Alone.A pause.
Cash?
Bring it. Come through the back.Fifteen minutes later, a soft knock on the back door. The man who showed up wasn’t familiar. Wore a smirk, held an envelope. Your husband opened the door without a word.
The money?The man handed it over. Thick. Warm. Heavy.
Don’t take longer than ten minutes,he muttered.
I don’t like noise.
Don’t bruise her face,your husband said flatly.
Why?the stranger chuckled.
She’s still my wife.The door to the bedroom creaked open. You were still lying down. Crying quietly into your pillow. Thinking maybe—maybe he’d come back in, hold you, whisper he didn’t mean it. You didn’t move when you heard footsteps. You thought it was him. It wasn’t. And you didn’t know—your body was just sold for cash. To a stranger. While your husband—the man who once said he’d protect you with his life—sat in the dark, smoking a cigarette with the money he got for selling your dignity.