When Amber moved in next door, I didn’t expect trouble. But the moment she stepped out of the moving truck—young, blonde, freshly divorced, and dressed like she was auditioning for a reality show—I knew she wasn’t just looking for a fresh start. She was hunting for attention. Specifically, my husband’s.
At first, I tried to be neighborly. I brought muffins. She answered the door in a silk robe and mentioned how “lucky” I was to have Andy. Her tone made my skin crawl. Within days, she was waving at him every morning, complimenting his shirts, asking for help with boxes, and jogging past our house in outfits that left nothing to the imagination.
Andy, bless him, was oblivious. But I wasn’t. I watched her escalate—from flirty comments to “emergencies” that required Andy’s help. One night, she showed up in a bathrobe claiming her bathroom was flooding. Andy grabbed his toolbox. I followed. What I found wasn’t a leak—it was a setup. Candles. Lingerie. Rose petals. She was waiting for him.
Andy recoiled, horrified. I walked out, proud and furious. He passed the test. But Amber? She needed a lesson.
So I crafted a trap. Using Andy’s spare phone, I sent her a message pretending to be him: “My wife’s out tonight. Come over.” She replied instantly, eager. That evening, I gathered a group of strong, no-nonsense women from the neighborhood. We waited.
Amber arrived dressed to seduce. But instead of Andy, she found us—arms crossed, unimpressed. I told her calmly: “This is a community. We protect our own. You crossed a line.”
She turned pale. Stammered. Left.
