When My Husband's Mistress Moved Into Our Beach House—I Had Already Changed The Ownership скачать в хорошем качестве

When My Husband's Mistress Moved Into Our Beach House—I Had Already Changed The Ownership

The look on Vanessa's face was absolutely priceless. Standing there on the deck of what she thought was her new beachfront paradise, wind whipping her perfectly highlighted hair across her shocked expression as the police officer explained the situation. My husband James stood beside her, his face draining of color while the truth sank in: the property wasn't his to offer, and hadn't been for nearly six months. They were officially trespassing. Before we jump back in, tell us where you're tuning in from, and if this story touches you, make sure you're subscribed—because tomorrow, I've saved something extra special for you! I watched from my car parked across the street, sunglasses hiding my eyes but nothing concealing my smile. The Silver Cove cottage that had been in my family for generations—the one I'd restored with my own inheritance money while James was "working late"—was mine. All mine. And the beauty of it? He never saw it coming. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me take you back to where it all began, to the day I discovered that the life I'd carefully built over twelve years of marriage was nothing but a carefully constructed lie. I'd always considered myself fairly perceptive. As a senior account director at Westview Marketing, I prided myself on reading people and situations—an essential skill when dealing with demanding clients and market trends that shifted like sand. Yet somehow, I'd completely missed the signs that my own husband was having an affair. It was a Tuesday evening in early March when I first noticed something off. James had been "working late" more frequently, which wasn't entirely unusual given his position as financial advisor at Meridian Wealth Management. What was unusual was the scent of unfamiliar perfume clinging faintly to his collar when he finally came home around 11 PM. "Rough day? " I asked, looking up from my laptop where I'd been finalizing a presentation. James loosened his tie, not quite meeting my eyes. "The Richardson account is a nightmare. We're trying to restructure their portfolio before the quarter ends. " I nodded, filing away the slight hesitation in his voice, the way his fingers fumbled with his watch—a tell he'd had since we first started dating in college. Something wasn't right, but I didn't push. Not yet. Over the next few weeks, the evidence mounted: mysterious credit card charges at restaurants we'd never visited, texts that made him step out of the room to answer, and the increasing frequency of "client dinners" that kept him out until the early morning hours. I might have continued in blissful denial if not for the Silver Cove property taxes. As I was organizing our financial documents for the upcoming tax season, I noticed that James had taken over the payments for the beach house—the cottage my grandparents had left me, the one I'd renovated using the remainder of my inheritance. "Just simplifying things," he'd said months ago. "Since I handle all our other investments, it makes sense to consolidate. " I'd agreed, touched by his thoughtfulness. Now, reviewing our accounts more carefully, I discovered he'd been paying the property taxes from our joint account, but had set up a separate savings fund labeled "Silver Cove Maintenance" that I had no access to. When I checked the balance, it contained over $30,000—far more than we'd ever discussed allocating for the cottage upkeep. My suspicions fully aroused, I did something I'd never considered before: I checked his email. We knew each other's passwords—a transparency we'd maintained throughout our marriage—but I'd never had reason to use his. The guilt lasted about five seconds, disappearing entirely when I found the exchange between James and someone named Vanessa Cooper. I can't wait to show you the place. You're going to fall in love with Silver Cove just like I did. Perfect for weekends away from everything. No one will bother us there. Her response: Sounds dreamy. When can we make it official? His reply chilled me: Soon. Just getting the last details in order. Then it's all ours. All ours? The beach house that I'd inherited from my grandparents, where I'd spent every summer growing up, where James and I had spent our first anniversary? The property that was in my name alone? I scrolled further, my hands shaking, and found more: photos of Vanessa—young, blonde, polished in that artificial way that screamed "trying too hard"—posing inside my cottage. My grandmother's quilts visible in the background. My renovated kitchen with its hand-painted tiles serving as backdrop to her pouty selfies. They'd been using my sanctuary for their affair. But what truly ignited my fury wasn't just the betrayal—it was the timestamp on the email thread discussing "their future plans. " Three months ago, James had written: I'm thinking we could make Silver Cove our permanent place by summer.