Nancy believed in love, loyalty, and keeping things equal in a marriage.
For two years, she handed over half the rent, trusting her husband.
When she learned he and his mother had been scamming her out of thousands the whole time, she decided to settle the score with a lesson they’d never forget.
They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? Well, they haven’t met a woman who’s been robbed by her husband and mother-in-law for two years straight.
I’m the kind of woman who believes in justice. The kind who works hard, plays fair, and expects the same in return.
But sometimes life throws you a curveball that’s so twisted and so perfectly designed to break your heart and ignite your rage that you have no choice but to embrace your inner vengeful goddess.
You know what’s funny? I actually thought Jeremy and I had a solid foundation. We married young, built a life together, and split everything down the middle like responsible adults.
That was our agreement — 50-50. Rent, groceries, bills. Everything.
Jeremy was the one who found the apartment.
“Baby, you’ve got to see this place,” he’d said, calling me at work, excitement bubbling in his voice.
“It’s perfect for us.”
“Perfect how?” I asked, smiling at his enthusiasm.
“Two bedrooms, a modern kitchen, and that balcony you always wanted. And we get this at just $2,000 a month… not bad for this area.”
He was practically bouncing when he showed me around later that day, pointing out every feature like a kid showing off a new toy.
“We’ll split it, $1,000 each. Just like we planned,” he said, wrapping his arms around me from behind as we stood on the balcony.
“Our first real home together.”
I turned in his arms and kissed him softly. “Sounds perfect.”
Everything looked legit — the lease, the payments, and the so-called landlord. Not a single red flag.
Then came one random December night, a busted elevator, and a conversation that shattered everything I thought I knew.
I stepped into the elevator, my feet aching in my heels after a 12-hour shift at the hospital.
The elevator suddenly stopped at the fifth floor.
Taylor, my bubbly 20-something neighbor, hopped in, and I barely had the energy to force a smile.
“Hey!” she chirped, then tilted her head. “Oh, I know you! You live in Lorrie and Jeremy’s apartment, right?”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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