MY WIFE KILLED ME—THEN I REBORN AS A BILLIONAIRE

Chapter 5: The Wife's Friend

Shishi was halfway through a story about a customer who once tried to pay his tab with a Rolex when a voice cut through the jazz music like a knife through butter.

"Oh my God. Ethan? Ethan Moore?"

Ethan's glass stopped an inch from his lips. He knew that voice. High pitched, theatrical, dripping with fake sweetness like syrup poured over something rotten.

Natalie Walsh stood three feet from his booth in a tight red dress and gold heels, her blond hair blown out like she was heading to a magazine shoot. Her mouth was hanging open and her eyes were bouncing between Ethan's face, his suit, the two bottles of Romanee Conti on the table, and the hostess sitting across from him.

"Natalie." Ethan set his glass down slowly, his face giving away absolutely nothing.

"It IS you! I almost walked right past. I didn't even recognize you. You look so... different." Natalie pressed her hand against her collarbone, her eyes scanning him from head to toe with the kind of hunger she probably thought was subtle.

Shishi glanced at Ethan with a quiet question in her eyes. He gave her a small nod, and she stood gracefully.

"I'll check on your appetizer order, Mr. Moore." Shishi touched his shoulder lightly as she passed, and Natalie tracked the gesture like a hawk watching a mouse.

"Please, sit." Ethan gestured to the now empty seat across from him.

Natalie slid into the booth fast, like she was afraid the invitation might expire. She crossed her legs, leaned forward on her elbows, and looked at the wine bottles with wide eyes.

"Ethan, what is going on with you? Is that Romanee Conti? The real one?" Her voice climbed half an octave, her fingertips brushing the edge of the velvet tray.

"The 1945, yes." Ethan poured himself another glass without offering her one.

"Two bottles? Ethan, I work in finance. I know what those cost. That's more than my apartment." Natalie laughed, but her eyes weren't laughing at all. They were calculating.

"How have you been, Natalie? It's been a while." Ethan leaned back in the booth, his arm resting along the top of the leather seat, looking completely at ease.

"Good, good. Busy with work, you know how it is. But forget about me, look at you! New suit, new hair, new everything. Did you win the lottery or something?" Natalie tilted her head and smiled wide, showing too many teeth.

"Something like that." Ethan swirled his wine once and took a slow sip.

Natalie watched him drink the way a cat watches a bird on a windowsill. Then she softened her expression, pulled it down into something that was supposed to look like concern and sympathy. She reached across the table and placed her hand near his, not quite touching, but close enough to suggest warmth.

"You know, Ethan, I've always felt bad for you. I really have." Her voice dropped low and sweet.

"Is that right." Ethan didn't phrase it as a question.

"Claire is my girl, you know that. We've been friends since college. But I'm not blind. I see how she talks about you sometimes, and honestly, it breaks my heart." Natalie shook her head slowly, her brow furrowed like she was delivering a eulogy.

"How does she talk about me?" Ethan's expression didn't shift by even a millimeter. His eyes stayed on Natalie's face, steady and patient.

Natalie hesitated for just a second, like she was deciding how much poison to pour. Then she went all in.

"She says you're boring, Ethan. That you never take her anywhere nice. That you bury yourself in work and come home smelling like coffee and printer ink. She told me last month that being married to you is like being married to a piece of furniture. Her words, not mine." Natalie held up both hands as if to say don't shoot the messenger.

Ethan felt the words land somewhere deep inside him. Not because they were new. He already knew Claire felt that way. He had heard it all from her own mouth in a hospital room while his heart was giving out. But hearing it from Natalie, delivered with that fake pity and rehearsed sadness, was its own special brand of cruelty.

She's not here to comfort me, he thought. She's here to dig. She smells money and she wants to know where it came from so she can report back to Claire like a good little spy.

"That must be hard to hear. I'm sorry." Natalie bit her lower lip and squeezed her hands together on the table, performing sympathy like a community theater actress.

"Go on." Ethan's voice was calm and smooth.

"Well, she also says you never buy her anything romantic. No flowers, no surprises, no weekend getaways. Just bills and spreadsheets and silence. I always told her, Natalie give the man a break, he works hard, he provides. Not every man is going to be prince charming, right?" Natalie smiled in that way people smile when they think they're being generous but are actually twisting the knife.

"You defended me. That's kind of you." Ethan's tone carried exactly zero emotion. His eyes never left hers.

"I mean it, Ethan. I always thought you were underappreciated. Honestly. You're a good man. You work your butt off, you never complain, you take care of that whole family without asking for anything in return. That takes character." Natalie placed her hand on her chest again, right over her heart, like she was pledging allegiance to his suffering.

"Anything else she's said?" Ethan asked it the way someone would ask for the second page of a menu.

Natalie leaned closer, lowering her voice to a near whisper, her eyes glittering with the thrill of gossip disguised as concern. "She told the girls at brunch last Saturday that you haven't surprised her in years. That you're the kind of man who buys the same anniversary card every year and thinks that's enough. She said, and I quote, 'Ethan doesn't have a romantic bone in his body. He wouldn't know passion if it knocked on the front door.'"

Silence stretched across the table for five long seconds.

Then Ethan laughed.

It wasn't a bitter laugh. It wasn't angry or broken. It was light and genuine, the kind of laugh that comes from somewhere deep when a person suddenly realizes the absurdity of their own past. He laughed like a man who had just been told a joke that only he understood.

Natalie's performance faltered. Her fake sympathy mask cracked at the edges, confusion leaking through. "What's funny?"

"Nothing. You've been very informative, Natalie. Thank you." Ethan raised one hand and snapped his fingers once without looking away from her.

The waiter appeared within seconds, practically materializing from the shadows. "Yes, Mr. Moore?"

"Two more bottles of the Romanee Conti. Same vintage." Ethan dropped his hand and picked up his glass again.

The waiter nodded and vanished. Natalie's jaw went slack.

"Two MORE? Ethan, that's four bottles total. That's over seven hundred thousand dollars in wine." Natalie's voice came out thin and strained, her composure crumbling like wet paper.

"Seven hundred and twenty thousand, before tax." Ethan corrected her without blinking.

Natalie sat back in the booth like the air had been punched out of her lungs. Her eyes darted across his face, searching for something she recognized, some trace of the quiet, invisible man Claire had described at all those brunches. The man who clipped coupons and wore the same three shirts on rotation. The man who ordered water at restaurants because he felt guilty spending money on himself.

That man was gone.

The two new bottles arrived on the same velvet tray, carried by the same white gloved sommeliers who treated each bottle like a holy relic. Natalie watched them set the bottles down, and her mind was doing math she couldn't keep up with.

Claire said he was stingy. Claire said he was broke. Claire said he was a nobody who got lucky marrying into her family.

Natalie looked at the four bottles of wine on the table, at the $398,000 suit draped perfectly across Ethan's new frame, at the Patek Philippe on his wrist catching the amber bar light like a piece of captured sunlight, and a single thought crystallized in her mind with absolute, unavoidable clarity.

Everything Claire had ever told her about Ethan Moore was a total, complete, absolute lie.