My Godfather Husband Gave Our Marriage a Zero, but Refused to Let Me Divorce Him Chapter 01

My Godfather Husband Gave Our Marriage a Zero, but Refused to Let Me Divorce Him Chapter 01

When we got married, the only thing Rocco Visconti asked of me was to blow fifty million dollars within a year—every last cent of it.

He’d lived through too many lean years with me.

When the heating went out in winter, we couldn’t afford repairs and survived on canned beans for two straight weeks.

During our hardest year, I lost the baby I was carrying.

Once Rocco seized control of the family, guilt gnawed at him night and day.

He kept nagging me to drop my frugal ways.

Then Livia Bianchi, his childhood friend and a marriage coach, came home from overseas.

Livia claimed our marriage was built on inequality and rated it a zero out of a hundred.

She told Rocco that love could never be sustained by money alone.

Right after that, Rocco froze my black card, called off the long-awaited honeymoon I’d spent ages dreaming of, and even revoked my prenatal care coverage at the family hospital.

He said he didn’t want me getting used to taking everything from him.

Pregnant and broke, I dug out an electric scooter I’d had for five years and took delivery jobs to scrape by.

One rainy day, I crashed.

The doctor told me I needed bed rest to save the pregnancy—then pressed me for payment. I had no choice but to call Rocco.

He rushed over and pulled me into his arms, his face etched with worry.

But Livia stood beside him, scribbling notes in a notebook, and cut in without hesitation.

“Rocco, don’t let Mrs. Visconti play the victim. Don’t abandon your principles. Marriage needs fairness. I’d suggest you only cover half the bill.”

At her words, Rocco immediately let go of me. “You hear that, Odette? No amount of begging or sad looks will work today. You’re on the hook for the other half.”

Once they left, I scrolled through Livia’s social media. There was a new post: Rocco had just bought her a ten-million-dollar pink diamond.

That stone had been meant for me.

I wiped away my tears. The half Rocco had left was just enough to cover one surgery.

My appointment was scheduled for the following afternoon.

After confirming the appointment, I climbed back onto my beat-up scooter and headed home to our sprawling townhouse.

The second I opened the front door, I spotted a pair of delicate high heels I’d never seen before.

Livia was wrapped in a bathrobe, slouched at the dining table.

When she saw me walk in, she twirled her pen, then muttered to herself as she jotted something down.

“Mrs. Visconti did no housework today and earned no income. Her economic value, domestic contribution, and emotional value—all zero.”

Rocco stepped out of the kitchen. He’d actually cooked dinner himself for once.

I pointed straight at Livia. “What is she doing here?”

“To fix what’s broken between us, Livia’s moving in for a while,” Rocco replied. “Take what she says to heart and work on changing yourself.”

I tried to object, but he cut me off. “Enough. Come sit and eat first. We can talk later.”

He tugged me toward the table before I could argue, leaving no room for pushback.

I sank down in silence.

Livia’s plate held seared foie gras and grilled steak.

Rocco slid a platter of roasted potato cubes in front of me. “I made these just for you.”

I didn’t touch my fork.

Livia wore an I-told-you-so smile. “You see? She’s conditioned to measure your love in dollars and cents.”

“These potatoes are cheap, so she turns her nose up at them. She’s forgotten you made them with your own hands.”

“I warned you before. Her frugality was just an act. She was afraid you’d leave her once you struck it rich, so she played the dutiful wife.”

“It was all a calculated investment—classic gold digger. Now she’s forgotten where she came from.”

Rocco’s expression turned cold. “Livia’s exactly right. You’ve grown materialistic.”

He’d forgotten our days crammed into that tiny basement.

Back then, we’d buy cheap potatoes and roast a huge batch to share.

Once, I grabbed a bargain bag of sprouted, half-rotten potatoes. We ate them, and I spent the whole night throwing up.

After that, the sight of roasted potatoes turned my stomach.

Once Rocco became a multimillionaire, that dish never appeared on our table again.

Our chef served eight elaborate courses every single night—Chinese, Italian, French, Japanese, always something new.

I’d told him he was wasting money and begged him to be more sensible.

He’d stroked my hair and laughed. “The whole point of making money is to spoil my wife. You have to stop pinching pennies.”

Now, one comment from Livia was all it took. My hatred of roasted potatoes had turned into proof of my greed.

This version of Rocco felt like a stranger.