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The moment I saw that lipstick stain on his collar, I should have known my life was about to unravel. But after thirty-five years of marriage, you convince yourself that some battles aren't worth fighting, that some betrayals can be overlooked for the sake of peace. I spent decades building a life with James, believing that loyalty and sacrifice would be rewarded with respect. I never imagined that one spring afternoon, I would return from visiting my sister to find him casually moving his twenty-nine-year-old mistress into our guest house—into the home I had designed with my own hands. But that wasn't even the most shocking part. When I confronted him, standing there in our marble foyer with my suitcase still in hand, his response wasn't an apology. It was a suggestion that perhaps I should be the one to "find other accommodations" if their arrangement made me uncomfortable. Thirty-five years of marriage, and he thought he could dismiss me like an inconvenient houseguest. What James didn't know—what he never bothered to learn during our marriage—was that the grand estate he thought was his actually belonged to me. And after decades of silence and sacrifice, I was finally ready to reclaim what was mine. 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! My name is Eleanor Thomson. I'm sixty-three years old, though most people guess I'm in my early fifties—good genes and a religious skincare routine, I suppose. I was once Eleanor Mitchell, daughter of a middle-school English teacher and a city planner from Oakridge, a modest suburb where dreams were practical and ambitions were reasonable. I studied architecture at state university, where I met James Thomson during my senior year. He was in the business program, charismatic and ambitious, with the kind of confidence that made everyone in a room turn to listen when he spoke. I was quieter, more deliberate, but no less determined. My professors had called my designs innovative, even revolutionary. There was talk of fellowships, of my potential for changing skylines. We married six months after graduation. James had landed a position at Meridian Development, a small but promising real estate company. I had offers from three prestigious firms, including one that would have taken me to Chicago. "That's the wonderful thing about architecture," James said when I showed him the letters. "You can do it anywhere, anytime. My career needs to happen now. " So I declined the offers, took a junior position at a local firm, and focused on supporting James as he climbed the corporate ladder. It wasn't a decision I regretted, not for many years. We moved into a starter home in Lakeview, a new development where all the houses had the same beige siding and postage-stamp yards. I worked part-time, then freelance after our daughter Emily was born. James's hours grew longer, his ambitions bigger. By our tenth anniversary, he had become the youngest vice president at Meridian. We celebrated with champagne on the balcony of our new home in Westlake Hills, a sprawling property with five bedrooms, a pool, and a view of the city lights that made my heart ache with its beauty. "We made it, Ellie," James said, his arm around my waist, his breath warm against my neck. "Everything I ever promised you. " But the house wasn't his accomplishment, though he spoke of it that way. It was mine—or rather, my uncle Richard's gift to me. Uncle Richard was my mother's older brother, a bachelor and self-made real estate investor who had amassed considerable wealth through careful, shrewd investments. "The only smart businessman who didn't lose his soul along the way," my mother used to say. He had no children of his own, but he'd always shown special interest in my education and career. When I gave up the Chicago offer, he called me directly—the only time I ever heard disappointment in his voice. "Your talent shouldn't be sacrificed, Eleanor," he told me. "Not even for love. Especially not for love. " But I was twenty-three and thought I knew everything about life and compromise. We didn't speak for nearly two years after that, until he showed up unannounced at Emily's christening. He stood awkwardly at the back of the church, tall and distinguished in his charcoal suit, looking so much like my late father that my breath caught. After the service, he handed me an envelope. "For my grandniece," he said formally. "And for you. To secure your future. " Inside was the deed to a house—the Westlake Hills property—along with papers establishing a trust in my name. The trust held not only the house deed but also a significant number of shares in several companies, including Meridian Development. Uncle Richard had been quietly investing in James's company for years. "The house is yours alone," Uncle Richard told me later, when we met for coffee.