Logan and I married young, believing our love was unshakable. Over time, cracks formed as he began spending more time at the gym than home. Our struggle to conceive convinced me I was the problem. I doubted myself, becoming a shadow of the woman I once was. One night, while out with a friend, I spotted Logan with another woman. Confronting him, I was met with cold indifference. “It’s about time you learned,” he said, without a shred of remorse, as his mistress laughed in my face.
Hoping for an apology, I returned home the next morning only to find my belongings on the porch. Logan stood with his mistress, smug and unapologetic. “This house belongs to my grandfather, and you have no claim to it. You’re out,” he declared, slamming the door. His mistress taunted me, eager to redecorate “my horrendous taste.”
As despair set in, a familiar voice called my name. It was Logan’s grandfather, furious upon hearing what happened. His mistress bolted inside, summoning Logan, but his grandpa delivered swift justice.
“You’re a disgrace,” he told Logan, cutting him off financially and severing ties.
In a stunning twist, the house—once a symbol of betrayal—became mine.
