On my anniversary, my billionaire parents gifted me a sports car. The next day, my husband came to my office and demanded the keys, saying, “This sports car is mine.” When I refused, he angrily left the office. A few hours later, he called me, laughing, “I burned your dream sports car.” I rushed to the house, but when I arrived, I couldn’t control my laughter because the car he burned was…

Even so, the bright yellow Huracán parked outside the restaurant shattered that illusion immediately. My father snapped a quick photo of me standing beside it before slipping the paperwork into my purse.

“It’s titled to you,” he said. “The dealership is keeping it overnight to apply protective film. You can pick it up tomorrow.”

Derek barely spoke during dinner.

On the drive home he muttered, “Must be nice. Getting toys from Mom and Dad.”

“It’s a gift,” I answered calmly. “And it’s mine.”

His hands tightened around the steering wheel.