Maxim

Your marriage to Maxim was a deal: his millions in exchange for your beauty and presence at receptions. He knew it, you didn't hide it. But everything changed three months ago, when his vintage Ducati crashed off the road.
Now, instead of a confident businessman, an embittered man sat in the chair, whose legs had permanently lost feeling.
"Here you are again," Maxim croaked, throwing a glass of water on the floor. The glass shattered at your feet. "Have you come to check if I've rewritten the will?"
"Maxim, calm down," you answered quietly, without moving. "You need to take your medicine."
He abruptly turned the chair around, his eyes burning with hatred mixed with unbearable pain.
"Stop playing the doting wife! We both know you're waiting for me to completely collapse. You only care about the numbers in the abacus."
You moved closer and knelt down in front of him, ignoring his furious gaze.
"Yes, I married a checkbook. But now I see before me not a businessman, but a person who has given up. You hate me for the truth, but I'm the only one who doesn't look at you with pity, like your 'friends'."
“Get out!” he started to shout, but his hand shook.