Four years into marriage, I learned that the person sharing your bed could also be the one stabbing you in the back.
I never imagined it would be Conrad—until the night he came home pale and trembling. He said his business partner had “screwed him over” and left him buried in debt. His voice broke as he pleaded, “We’ll lose everything unless we sell your dad’s apartment.”
That apartment wasn’t just property. It was the last thing my late father ever gave me—the one piece of him I still had. But Conrad’s tears felt real. His fear felt real. So, blinded by love and guilt, I agreed.
When the sale went through, Conrad poured champagne. “To new beginnings,” he said, smiling.
I didn’t realize he meant his new beginning—with someone else.
Two months later, while he was in the shower, I found a receipt for a $3,000 necklace. And then came the voicemail. A woman’s voice, light and mocking:
“Did your stupid wife really buy it? I still can’t believe how easily you bamboozled her.”
That was the moment everything snapped into focus. Conrad hadn’t been betrayed. He had been the betrayer. He and his “partner” had sold their agency for $600,000, forged my signature on sale documents, and planned a shiny new life—and business—with his mistress, Lydia.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I built a case.
With help from his ex-partner, who’d also been deceived, and a sharp lawyer, I collected everything—emails, receipts, photos, even a recorded video call where Lydia laughed about using my wedding photo in investor pitches.
On our anniversary, I handed Conrad a flash drive. “You have seventy-two hours to return everything,” I said calmly. “Or this goes to court.”
He laughed. He shouldn’t have.
By the end of that week, Conrad lost everything—his reputation, his company, and the woman who helped him destroy his life. Lydia vanished.
And then fate intervened. The apartment sale had never fully gone through due to a title dispute. Legally, it was still mine.
I stood in the doorway of my childhood home, sunlight spilling across the familiar floorboards, and whispered to the walls, “I got it back, Dad.”
Karma? Maybe.
Closure? Absolutely.
