The twenty-thousand-dollar gown.

The car lease.

The months I had spent visiting expensive restaurants in search of someone wealthy enough to change my life.

I thought of the Westchester mansion.

The gardens.

The Bentley.

The staff.

The future I’d imagined.

Then I pictured myself in a two-bedroom rental apartment, caring for a seventy-eight-year-old husband while collection notices arrived at my door.

My mouth went dry.