Ditch the unfaithful husband who loves snakes

Everyone in Chicago said Dean Keynes was a cold-blooded monster.

He kept a house full of venomous snakes—yet none were colder than he was.

I married him only because our engagement had existed before the Doherty family went bankrupt.

Over the years, he toyed with countless women. And I, his so-called wife, was left to deal with them.

When I knelt to write checks to make them leave, those women would lift my chin with the tips of their high heels and sneer,

"Mr. Keynes said you should kneel to send us off."

Every time, Dean would sit on the second floor, swirling a glass of red wine, watching with cold indifference.

Then Sally came along—a factory girl from the countryside.

One day, the hospital called. They'd finally found a kidney match for my sister.

I called Dean in a panic. But it wasn't him who answered.

It was Sally's delicate voice.

"Miss Secretary? Mr. Keynes said my foot hurts. Could you bring me a Band-Aid?"

That night, it was raining hard. I stood drenched outside the presidential suite, Band-Aid in hand.

From inside came Dean's languid voice.

"Come in. Bring the Band-Aid."

A pause.

"And the three boxes of condoms on the table."

I stood frozen, listening to the sounds of their intimacy.