And then he said it.
Loud. Cruel. Spitting anger.
“Hey, you sick little dog! Get up. We need this place cleaned before dinner.”
The mistress laughed.
My heart didn’t break.
No — something far colder formed.
I stood slowly, nodded politely, and said:
“Give me three minutes.”
They smirked, convinced I was running off to cry.
My husband had no idea I earned $1.5 million a month. He brought a beautiful girl home and yelled at me, “Hey, you sick little dog!”
