My Millions, His Parasitic Family

I'm a neurosurgeon making over half a million dollars a month. I support my husband, an army captain, and his entire parasitic family. After I saved them from financial ruin with a $5 million check, I planned the ultimate family vacation to Monaco-private jet, chartered yacht, all on my dime.

The night before we left, my husband announced his ex-girlfriend, Dahlia, was coming.

He had already given her my seat on the private jet I paid for. My new ticket? A commercial flight with a layover in a war zone. "Dahlia is delicate," he explained. "You're strong."

His family agreed, fawning over her while I stood there, invisible. His sister even whispered to Dahlia, "I wish you were my real sister-in-law."

That night, I found Dahlia in my bed, wearing my silk nightgown. When I went for her, my husband threw his arms around Dahlia, shielding her from me.

The next morning, as punishment for my "behavior," he ordered me to load their mountain of luggage into the motorcade. I smiled. "Of course." Then I walked into my office and made a call. "Yes, I have a large quantity of contaminated material," I told the hazardous waste disposal service. "I need it all incinerated."

Chapter 1

My husband, Captain Connor Hopkins, scored a rare two weeks of leave, a small window in his demanding military career. I decided we needed a real family vacation. Not just a weekend away, but something unforgettable.

I planned everything.

I'm Dr. Jenna McMahon, a neurosurgeon whose monthly income tops half a million dollars. His is eight thousand. The math was simple. I made our life possible.

I spent weeks organizing the details. A private jet to Monaco, a chartered yacht to cruise the Mediterranean, reservations at restaurants with years-long waiting lists. The kind of trip the Hopkins family felt they deserved but could never afford.

Monaco was a fortress of old money and suspicion toward outsiders. Getting the right permits for our entourage was a bureaucratic nightmare I handled personally.

My husband's family didn't lift a finger. They just expected it to happen.

His parents, retired General Hugh Hopkins and his wife Beverley, lived in the guest wing of my mansion. I supported them completely.

His sister, Kourtney, was a nineteen-year-old student at an Ivy League university. I'd been paying her exorbitant tuition and funding her lavish lifestyle since she was a teenager. I practically raised her.

I told myself it was worth it. That this was the price for the happy, bustling family life I'd always wanted. My practice was thriving, with clients flying in from all over the world to see me. I could afford it.

Then, a few days ago, Kourtney made a casual comment. "I've never been in a proper armored motorcade before. Dahlia said they're amazing."

Dahlia. The name was a ghost from Connor's past.

To ensure their absolute safety and comfort-and to satisfy Kourtney's childish wish-I had dipped into my personal savings. I upgraded the entire travel package, arranging for a fully secured, multi-vehicle motorcade for all our ground transport in Europe. An expense of over a hundred thousand dollars I didn't even mention to Connor.

We were supposed to leave in the morning. All the bags were packed, lined up in the grand foyer. My bags. Connor's bags. His parents' bags. Kourtney's bags.

Then, my husband strode in.

"Jenna, good news. Dahlia is joining us."

I stopped what I was doing. I looked at him, trying to process the casual way he'd dropped the bomb.

"What?"

"Dahlia Reynolds. She's coming on the trip. I've already told her yes."

A cold feeling started in my stomach. The private jet only had a certain number of seats. I had booked it for the five of us.

"Connor, there isn't enough room on the jet."

He didn't even look at me. He was scrolling through his phone.

"I know. I took care of it."

A notification buzzed on my phone. It was a flight itinerary.

A commercial flight.

For one passenger. Me.

The route had three layovers. The final one was in a city currently under a Level 4 "Do Not Travel" advisory from the State Department due to civil unrest and violent crime.

I looked at the itinerary, then back at my husband.

"You canceled my seat on the private jet I paid for?"

He finally looked up from his phone, his expression impatient.

"Dahlia wanted to come. We couldn't just tell her no. She's family."

A primal, ugly feeling coiled in my gut. It was hot and sharp.

"She is not family, Connor. I am your wife. You want me to fly commercial, alone, through a war zone, so your ex-girlfriend can take my place on a jet I chartered?"

I turned to my mother-in-law, Beverley, who was listening with a smug little smile.

"Beverley, when my own mother wanted to visit last Christmas, you and Connor told me it was 'family time' and there wasn't room for her in this ten-bedroom house. But there's room for Dahlia on our family vacation?"

Connor's face hardened. "Dahlia is different. She understands our world. She's more family than your mother ever was."

The feeling in my gut wasn't just anger anymore. It was something more basic, more animalistic. The urge to attack.

I kept my voice dangerously calm. "So, let me get this straight. You are sending me, your wife, the woman who funds this entire family, on a dangerous commercial flight alone."

"The motorcade is full," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "I had to cancel your spot to make room for Dahlia's luggage."

He had the nerve to try and smile at me, a pathetic, placating gesture.

"Besides, you're strong, Jenna. You're a survivor. You can handle it. Think of it as an adventure."

I stared at him, the words echoing in the silent room. An adventure. He was calling a potentially lethal journey an adventure.

"The route you booked for me," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. "It goes through the most dangerous territory on the continent."

"So? Dahlia gets anxious in secure motorcades, and you don't. Why should she be uncomfortable while you travel in safety and style?" he asked, as if it was the most logical thing in the world.

My eyes flickered to his father, General Hopkins. The man who supposedly lived by a code of honor. I looked at him, pleading with my eyes for him to say something. Anything.

He looked away, busying himself with a loose thread on his jacket. A coward.

Beverley stepped forward, placing a hand on my arm. Her touch felt like a spider.

"Jenna, dear," she cooed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Connor is the man of the house. He knows what's best. Dahlia is our guest. It's only right that we make her feel comfortable."

Kourtney chimed in, her voice filled with the casual cruelty of youth. "Yeah, Jenna. You're always so tough. Dahlia is delicate. You can't expect her to rough it."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I looked around at their faces-my husband, his parents, his sister.

"Who is the family here?" I asked, my voice shaking with a rage so profound it felt like it could crack the foundation of the house. "You're treating an outsider, a guest, like she's your true family, and me, your wife, like I'm a stranger."

I pointed a trembling finger at Connor. "You're treating her like she's your wife."

Connor's eyes flashed with anger. "Don't be ridiculous, Jenna."

"It's just a travel arrangement," he snapped. "Stop making a big deal out of nothing."

"Dahlia is our family," he repeated, his voice rising. "I can't let her travel alone or feel unsafe. It's my duty as a man, as a Hopkins, to protect her."

"So you'll sacrifice your wife to prove you're a good man to your ex-girlfriend?"

Just then, the grand double doors of the foyer swung open.

Dahlia Reynolds stood there, silhouetted against the morning light.

Kourtney squealed with delight. "Dahlia! You're here!"

She rushed forward, throwing her arms around the other woman. "I've missed you so much! Come on, let me get your bags."

"I wish you were my real sister-in-law," Kourtney whispered to Dahlia, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Beverley bustled over, her face alight with a genuine warmth I had never seen her direct at me. "Dahlia, my dear girl. It's been too long. You look wonderful."

They stood there, the Hopkins clan, fawning over Dahlia, completely ignoring me. They had no shame.

My heart, which had ached and broken and tried to heal for six long years, finally turned to ice. Every last drop of warmth I held for these people evaporated.

I remembered the stench of desperation clinging to the Hopkins name six years ago. A massive financial scandal involving the General had erupted. Their lands were seized, their accounts frozen. They were about to lose everything.

Dahlia's family, who had been close allies, packed their bags and fled with their remaining wealth, leaving the Hopkinses to face the vultures alone. Dahlia had broken up with Connor via a short text message, abandoning him in his darkest hour.

He was heartbroken.

And then there was me. I was a rising star in the medical world, already incredibly wealthy. I was dating Connor. I saw his family's pain. So I stepped in.

I wrote a check for five million dollars.

I single-handedly paid off their debts and saved their "prestigious" family name.

Out of a sense of gratitude, or perhaps obligation, Connor asked me to marry him. I accepted, hoping that love would grow.

It never did.

He resented me. He resented his dependency. Other soldiers in his unit mocked him for living off his wife's fortune.

But I had hoped. I poured everything I had into this family, believing I could build the home I never had.

I looked at them now, circling Dahlia like she was a returning queen.

They owed me everything. Their home. Their reputation. Their very existence.

I had been paying Kourtney's bills for six years. Not just her eighty-thousand-dollar-a-year tuition. I paid for her clothes, her spring break trips, her car. I bought her first designer handbag, a Chanel worth more than Connor's monthly salary.

I had been more of a mother to her than Beverley ever was.

I gave Hugh and Beverley a monthly allowance of twenty thousand dollars. I bought them new cars every two years. I paid for the best doctors and treatments when their health failed.