Скачать или смотреть My husband faked a work transfer to move in with his mistress. I sold the house—they came back to.

My husband faked a work transfer to move in with his mistress. I sold the house—they came back to.

My husband told me his company was transferring him to Denver for six months. He packed his bags, kissed me goodbye, and promised to video call every night. I believed him. I supported him. I even helped him pack. Three weeks later, I sold our house for $850,000 cash while he was gone. When he showed up at the door with his mistress, suitcases in hand, ready to move into "his" house, I handed him the eviction notice and smiled. The look on his face when he realized he was homeless was worth every penny.
Let me tell you how I got here.
My name is Catherine, and for fifteen years I thought I had the perfect marriage. Daniel and I met in college, married young, and built what I believed was a solid life together. He worked in pharmaceutical sales, climbing the corporate ladder with impressive determination. I worked as a freelance graphic designer from home, which gave me flexibility but also meant I'd sacrificed climbing my own career ladder to support his.
Our house was a beautiful three bedroom craftsman in Portland, Oregon. We'd bought it ten years ago for $380,000, and with the market boom, it was now worth over $850,000. The mortgage was almost paid off, just $120,000 remaining. Everything was in both our names, fifty-fifty ownership. It was our dream home, the place where we'd planned to grow old together.
Daniel had always been attentive, or so I thought. He brought me coffee in bed on Sundays, remembered anniversaries, and told me I was beautiful even when I was wearing stained pajamas and hadn't washed my hair in three days. He was my best friend, my partner, my everything.
Looking back now, I realize I'd been willfully blind to the signs. The late night texts he dismissed as "work emergencies." The new cologne that smelled expensive and musky, nothing like the fresh citrus scent he'd worn for years. The way he'd started going to the gym at 5:00 AM, coming home with wet hair and a glow that I stupidly attributed to endorphins.
The biggest red flag was Melissa. His "work colleague." He'd mentioned her casually about eight months ago. "We hired a new regional manager, Melissa. Sharp woman, really knows her stuff." Then Melissa started appearing in more stories. "Melissa suggested this restaurant for the client dinner." "Melissa thinks I should apply for the VP position." "Melissa and I are working on the new territory expansion."
I met her once at his company holiday party last December. She was thirty-two, eight years younger than me, with sleek blonde hair styled in a professional bob, wearing a red dress that hugged every curve. She had that polished, corporate ambition radiating from her like heat. When Daniel introduced us, she looked me up and down with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"So you're Catherine," she'd said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Daniel talks about you all the time. It must be so nice to work from home. So much more relaxed than the corporate grind."
The way she emphasized "relaxed" made it sound like "lazy." I'd smiled tightly and excused myself to get another drink. Daniel hadn't noticed the slight. He'd been too busy laughing at something Melissa said, his hand resting on her elbow in a way that made my stomach clench.
But I pushed it down. I was being paranoid. Jealous. Insecure. All the things I'd promised myself I'd never be.
Then came March 15th, a Thursday I'll never forget. Daniel came home from work looking serious, sat me down at the kitchen table, and took my hands in his.
"Cat," he said, using his nickname for me, "I have some news. The company is restructuring the Western territories, and they want me to head up the Denver expansion. It's a huge opportunity, a promotion, basically a guaranteed VP track."
My heart sank. "Denver? But that's—"


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