The Year I Was the Other Woman To Myself novel Chapter 133

When Penelope got back to the villa, she ran into Zebulon, who was just rushing home. The moment he saw her, his brow furrowed in disapproval.

“Oh, you’re home from work early?” she asked, feigning surprise.

Zebulon tried to hold his tongue but couldn’t. “Penelope, when did you become so materialistic? You were never like this. I’m so disappointed in you.”

With that, he stormed off toward the Sullivan house.

Penelope pursed her lips. He called her materialistic now? Back when they were living in a tiny rental, he barely made enough to cover his own expenses, let alone contribute to theirs. She paid for the food, the rent, and even his clothes. He had no problem with her spending money then.

But seeing how angry he was, she knew Mrs. Winters hadn’t let her down. She followed him over to the Sullivans’, where Mrs. Sullivan was waiting for her, practically vibrating with rage.

“Twenty thousand! You spent twenty thousand dollars in a single afternoon!”

“Do you think you’re made of gold? Or are you playing the part of a wealthy socialite?”

“Do you think our money grows on trees for you to spend however you please? Have you no shame? Are you trying to bankrupt us?”

Penelope blinked. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand.”

“Don’t play dumb with me! Did you think that black card Zebulon gave you was his? It’s mine! I get a text alert for every single purchase you make!”

“And I’ve been keeping a ledger!” Mrs. Sullivan shouted, throwing a thick notebook at her.

This was the first Penelope had heard that the card belonged to Mrs. Sullivan, let alone that she was tracking her spending. Speechless, she picked up the notebook. It was thick, but only two or three pages were filled. She had used the card before, but only to buy things for the Sullivan household or for Zebulon—appliances and the like—because it offered a discount. She’d never used it for herself. It wasn’t a matter of pride; she had genuinely considered herself part of the family, a place where one shouldn’t have to keep score over money.

Clearly, the Sullivans felt differently.

They had recorded every single transaction. On such-and-such a date, she had bought a piece of lingerie at the mall. She must have grabbed the black card by mistake. It was twenty dollars. They had written it down.

Twenty dollars. That’s what made her a gold-digger? That’s what made her a wealthy socialite?

“Zebulon, you need to put her in her place!” Mrs. Sullivan screeched. “Make her understand that since she didn’t earn this money, she has no right to spend it!”

“Can you please stop talking about the past?”

“You’ve changed!”

“I have changed. But you haven’t. I was just too blind to see it before.”

“You!”

“What? Are you going to threaten me with divorce again?”

He wouldn’t dare. Neither of them would.

Just as Penelope predicted, Mrs. Sullivan’s aggressive posture softened.

...