After the funeral, Conrad’s attorney set a small wooden box down on the desk in front of me and said, “Conrad made sure you received exactly what you deserved.”
His daughter smiled like she’d been waiting years to hear that sentence spoken out loud. She was certain the box held proof that I’d been left with nothing at all.
For one terrible, suspended moment, so was I.
My name is Lydia Shaw. When I met Conrad Bellamy, I was thirty two years old, exhausted, buried in debt, and one missed paycheck away from losing my apartment for good. My mother had died almost three years earlier after a long illness, but the bills from those final months had outlived her by a wide margin. I owed money to the hospital, to two different credit card companies, and to the university I’d left before finishing my degree, back when I still believed I’d find a way to go back.
During the day, I worked the front desk of a small hotel. At night, I served drinks at private events downtown. On Sundays, I volunteered at a neighborhood meal program, the same one my mother had given years of her own life to before her illness took that from her too.
I wasn’t looking for a wealthy husband. I was looking for enough money to keep the electricity running through the end of the month.
The Gala
The night I met Conrad, I was carrying a tray of champagne through a ballroom full of people whose watches probably cost more than my entire apartment. The event was raising money for families caring for seriously ill relatives, and Conrad Bellamy was the evening’s principal donor.
He was sixty two, silver haired, still broad shouldered despite his age, and known throughout the state for turning a single failing roadside inn into a chain of hotels and assisted living communities. I knew exactly who he was. Everyone in that room did.
What I didn’t know was that he already knew my face.
I approached his table and offered him a glass. He took it, then glanced down at my shoes.
“How long have you been standing?” he asked.
I thought I’d misheard him. “Excuse me?”
“You keep shifting your weight to your right foot. Your left heel must be hurting.”
I looked down, embarrassed to have been caught. “About five hours.”
“Then both feet probably hurt.”
