For most of my life, I had been selfish. Not the cute, “oops, I took the last slice of pizza” kind of selfish. No, I was the full-blown, “if I want it, it’s mine, and if it’s yours, I still want it” kind of selfish. And for the longest time, it worked. But, as karma loves a good plot twist, it was bound to catch up with me sooner or later. It all started with Larry.
We met in a library—because nothing says romance like the smell of old books and academic despair. He held the door for me, our eyes met, and boom! Instant connection. Or so I thought. Larry was a business major, while I dabbled in the arts, but opposites attract, right? We dated for a year, and everything was going perfectly fine—until he took me home.
Now, here’s where things got interesting.
I had never Googled Larry. Why would I? He was sweet, he paid for dinner, and he had great hair. But what I failed to do was put two and two together. Yes, I knew his last name, but did I ever stop to think about it? Not really. Imagine my surprise when I walked into his palatial family estate and realized I was dating that Larry—Larry Trionic. As in, one of the Trionic brothers, heirs to an empire so vast they probably owned the moon. And here I was, thinking I was doing him a favor by dating him.
The moment I realized I had just hit the jackpot, I knew I had to secure the bag.
His family welcomed me in with open arms. His mother took me under her wing, enrolling me in etiquette classes and teaching me how to be the perfect billionaire wife. His brother, Stevie, was my age and—let’s be honest—considerably more handsome, but I wasn’t about to get distracted. Not when I was on the brink of my greatest achievement: marrying into obscene wealth.
And marry, we did. A grand, ridiculous wedding that made royal affairs look like backyard barbecues. The moment I said “I do,” I knew I had made it.
That is, until I realized something rather unfortunate.
I didn’t actually like Larry.
I mean, he was fine, but dear Lord, talking to him was like listening to an audiobook on tax law. In slow motion. With monotone narration. And the more time I spent as his wife, the clearer it became—Stevie was the brother I should have set my sights on. He was witty, charming, and, most importantly, not Larry.
Now, a lesser woman might have wallowed in regret. But me? No, no, no. I don’t make mistakes—I make adjustments.
Stevie and I started spending more time together—strictly family bonding, of course (wink). A shared laugh here, a lingering glance there, until finally, we both had to admit what we already knew: we were madly in love.
But there was one small problem. Larry.
Divorce wasn’t an option. Not with the ironclad prenup his mother had drafted with the meticulousness of a criminal mastermind. If I left, I walked away with nothing. And nothing simply did not suit me.
Then, as if the universe had been listening to my dilemma, fate handed me the most beautifully wrapped gift: Larry, in a moment of spectacular clumsiness, managed to fall off the yacht during one of our lavish vacations. Now, a good wife would have screamed, called for help, maybe even jumped in after him.
But me? Well, I had a lot on my mind. Like how my swim lessons had never really progressed past floating. And how much I loved the sound of “Mrs. Stevie Trionic.”
By the time the crew realized Larry was missing, he was… well, let’s just say he had taken a very permanent vacation. The tragedy made headlines. I played the devastated widow flawlessly.
And after a respectable mourning period—a year because I am a lady—Stevie and I got married. The media called it “scandalous.” Society called it “unbelievable.” I called it a happy ending.
And so, I lived happily ever after.
With Stevie.
And ten yachts.
The moral of the story? Some people wait for fate. Others make their own—preferably with a very well-timed accident.