The word paperwork echoed in my ears like a sudden explosion, shattering the fragile reality I had constructed over the last three months
My knees buckled slightly, and I had to lean against the cold hallway wall to keep from collapsing onto the freshly mopped floor. The scent of lavender bleach, which usually brought me a twisted sense of accomplishment, suddenly made me gag.
“Besides, the fool doesn’t even know that the ‘cleaning lady’ has already seen the paperwork…”
The woman on the other end of the line giggled, a high-pitched, grating sound that vibrated through the cheap wood of the bathroom door. “Are you sure she hasn’t suspected anything, Bruno? Three months is a long time to play this game.”
“Suspected? Her?” Bruno let out that arrogant, booming laugh I had grown to detest. “Please. She’s too busy scrubbing my toilet to notice anything. She thinks she’s being clever by keeping the cash. She actually believes she’s pulling one over on me by doing the chores herself and hoarding the envelopes. I’ve seen the shoebox, Chloe. I let her keep it. It’s a cheap price to pay to keep her distracted while we finalize the transfer.”
Chloe. The name was a venomous snake sliding into my consciousness. Chloe. His twenty-four-year-old marketing assistant. The one he claimed was “just a kid trying to learn the ropes” when he brought her over for dinner six months ago.
“And the signature?” Chloe asked, her voice dropping into a sultry, manipulative purr. “When do I get my name on the deed of that gorgeous suburban property?”
“Next week,” Bruno murmured, his voice laced with a sickening tenderness he hadn’t shown me in a decade. “The notary prepared the dummy documents. I’m going to tell her it’s a refinancing application to lower our mortgage rate. She trusts me blindly when it comes to finances because she thinks she’s bad with numbers. She’ll sign it without reading a single page. Once her signature is on that deed, the house is legally transferred to a joint trust between you and me. Then, I file for divorce, she gets evicted, and we can finally start our life.”
I clamped my hand over my mouth to smother a sob. My lungs burned for oxygen, but I couldn’t breathe.
The house. This wasn’t just any house. It was the house my father had built with his own hands. When he passed away four years ago, he left it entirely to me, free and clear of any mortgage. It was my only safety net, my childhood sanctuary, the only piece of my parents I had left. When Bruno and I married, I foolishly allowed his name to be added to the title for “tax purposes,” a decision I was now realizing was the first step in his long con.
“What about the ‘cleaning lady’ angle?” Chloe asked, laughing again. “How does that fit into the court case?”
“That’s the best part,” Bruno chuckled. “I’ve been keeping a paper trail. Every week, I withdraw cash from our joint account under ‘household labor.’ I’ve been taking photos of the pristine house and logging them. If she tries to fight the divorce or claim spousal support, my lawyer will present evidence that she was completely negligent, forcing me to hire outside help, while she spent all her time hiding cash and committing financial marital fraud by pocketing the cleaning funds. She’s building the cage that’s going to trap her, and she’s doing it with a smile
.”
The bathroom door handle jiggled.
