I sold my parents’ lake house, my car, and every last asset I had to fund Jake’s dream of owning a farm. He called me his rock, his lucky charm, and I believed him. Every morning, I brewed his coffee while he painted visions of fresh milk and chemical-free produce. I thought we were building a future for our son, Benny. I thought love meant sacrifice. So when he asked for the final envelope of cash, I didn’t hesitate. Until I picked up the wrong phone—and heard a woman’s voice call my husband “baby.”
Her name was Alex. She thought Jake was leaving me for her. She’d sold her shares to help him too. That morning, I didn’t go to the bank—I went to her house. We sat across from each other, two women betrayed by the same man. He’d told her I was controlling, that he needed money for lawyers and alimony. I told her I’d nearly handed him everything. We stared at each other, stunned. Then we made a plan. If Jake wanted to play both of us, we’d let him—just long enough to trap him.
We staged the perfect setup. I told Jake the money would arrive in three days. Alex promised her own transfer. They planned a dinner date. I got there first, disguised in a wig and scarf, sitting just behind them. I listened as Jake spun lies about lawyers and divorce. When Alex dropped her napkin—our signal—I stood up, ripped off the wig, and greeted my husband with a smile. His face drained of color. “Surprise,” Alex said. “Your wife and your girlfriend finally agree on something.”
Jake sputtered, tried to laugh it off, but the game was over. I hadn’t wired a cent. Alex wasn’t giving him anything. We walked out together, two women who’d given too much and finally took something back. Outside, she nudged me and asked, “Ever think we’d end up here?” I grinned. “Not once. But if you ever need a partner in crime again, call me.” We went for pizza—extra cheese, extra wine. And for the first time in years, I felt free.
