Love can blind you. For years, I thought Alex was my rock—the one person who always had my back, especially when his mother, Martha, made snide comments about my job or my clothes. But one forgotten phone call shattered that illusion forever.
I had called Alex to ask for milk, and after he hung up, I overheard him and Martha plotting. “Once she’s legally yours, the lake house is ours,” his mother said. My lake house. The one my mother left me. They laughed about how easily I trusted him, how simple it would be to manipulate me into signing it over.
Instead of confronting him, I stayed quiet. I let him think I was still the naive fiancée who believed in his love. When he handed me legal papers before the wedding, I pretended to agree. But on the day we were supposed to say “I do,” I turned the ceremony into a courtroom. I played their recorded conversation for everyone—our families, our friends, the officiant.
The look on Alex’s face was priceless. Martha screamed, but it was too late. I left him standing there, humiliated, and walked out with my head high. Some people don’t deserve second chances. And some women don’t need them.
