Chapter 1Mortgage Paid, Husband’s First Love Moved In

The day we finally paid off the mortgage, I cooked a lavish dinner to celebrate.

With the paid-in-full notice in my hand, I sat by candlelight and waited for my husband, Mark, for three whole hours.

When he finally came home, he reeked of cheap, cloyingly sweet perfume.

There was no surprise, no hug.

He pulled out a chair and sat, his eyes darting away from mine, but his tone was firm.

“Raina, you need to move out of the master bedroom.”

The wine glass in my hand froze. I thought I’d misheard him.

“What did you say?”

He loosened his tie, his voice laced with irritation. “Serena’s back. She’s been diagnosed with severe depression, and she’s in a really bad state.”

Serena? Mark’s first love?

“She’ll be living with us from now on. I need to spend time with her after work every day. The master bedroom gets the best light; it’s better for her recovery.”

A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. A chill ran down my spine.

“When did you get back in touch?”

He looked up at me then, his eyes holding no guilt, only exhaustion. “Remember last year when you were in the hospital, and I went back to my hometown for money?”

“We ran into each other at the station. She was so thin she was unrecognizable, just shivering on a bench. The moment I held her again, I knew. I knew I’d never gotten over her.”

…

I laughed, a laugh so bitter it brought tears to my eyes.

For seven years, I, a senior actuary, had calculated every cent of our mortgage. I’d factored in compound interest, inflation, and every single penny we could save by paying it off early.

But I had missed one crucial variable: Mark’s conscience. Or lack thereof.

I had been with him since we had nothing, eating the cheapest instant noodles, living in a dark, damp basement apartment. I poured every bonus I ever earned into this house, working myself into the ground until my body gave out.

And now, on the very night our mortgage was paid, he was telling me he was moving his ex-girlfriend in.

“Mark, what do you take me for?” My voice trembled. “I was the one who worked until I was hospitalized with a bleeding stomach. Don’t you remember that I was in a bad state?”

He avoided my gaze, his eyes fixed on the pattern of the rug. “Raina, don’t bring up the past. You were young then, you were strong. You pushed through it.”

“But Serena’s different. She’s had a rough few years. She just got divorced, walked away with nothing. She doesn’t even have a place to stay.”

He stood up so abruptly his chair scraped back, his voice turning cold and hard.

“Raina, for years, what I’ve felt for you is gratitude. I owe you. I know that.”

“We were poor back then, but all our friends and family knew we’d made a life for ourselves in the city. I admit, I was vain. I thought I could just… settle, and spend the rest of my life with you. But then she got sick.”

“I can’t just watch her die. Don’t you understand?”

As he spoke, he walked towards our bedroom and began yanking my things out with brutal efficiency. My skincare products, the scented candle we made together on our seventh anniversary—he tossed them into the hallway like garbage. A bottle of expensive face cream rolled away, the lid popping off and splattering its contents across the floor.

“Are you insane?!” I lunged forward to stop him.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Mark’s expression instantly softened, his eyes filled with a tender, almost desperate urgency. He shoved past me and strode to the door.

Standing on the threshold was a woman in a long white dress, her face pale, a battered suitcase in her hand.

This was Serena. The one that got away, the ghost he’d cherished for a decade.

She leaned weakly against the doorframe. “Mark, is Raina angry? Maybe I should just go. I can find a spot under a bridge or something. I don’t want to ruin your relationship.”

Her voice was as faint as a whisper, but it was enough to make Mark’s face darken.

Right in front of me, he swept her up into his arms.

He carried her toward the bed we had spent three months choosing together. Our marital bed, where I hadn’t even had the chance to enjoy a single night’s peaceful sleep, free from the weight of our mortgage.

Without a backward glance, he carried her into the master bedroom and slammed the door shut.

I stood alone in the empty living room, surrounded by the wreckage of my life, a piercing pain in my heart.

I gathered my scattered belongings, my hand on the doorknob, ready to leave. But then I stopped.

I had bled for this house. Why should I be the one to run away?

I wasn't going anywhere. I would not surrender my home.

I was going to see just how shameless they could be.