The wooden chair felt cold beneath me as I sat with my hands folded in my lap like a good little wife. Benjamin sat across from me at his lawyer’s table, his expensive suit perfectly pressed, his smile wide and confident. He looked like he had already won. Maybe he thought he had. «You’ll never touch my money again,» he whispered to me, just loud enough for his lawyer to hear. His voice carried that same tone he used when he told me I couldn’t buy groceries without asking first or when he explained why I didn’t need my own credit card anymore.
He looked proud, like a hunter who had just caught the biggest prize of his life. Veronica sat in the gallery behind him, her perfectly manicured fingers resting on her designer purse. She leaned forward slightly, her red lips curving into a smile that made my stomach turn.
«That’s right, sweetheart,» she said softly, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. She called him sweetheart the same way I used to, back when I thought our marriage meant something, back when I thought the man I married actually existed. Dorothy, Benjamin’s mother, sat beside Veronica like they were old friends planning a tea party.
Her silver hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and her cold blue eyes looked at me like I was something dirty she had stepped in. She had never liked me, not from the day Benjamin brought me home eight years ago. I wasn’t good enough for her precious son, she always said, not rich enough, not classy enough, not worthy of the Foster family name.
«She doesn’t deserve a cent,» Dorothy said, her voice carrying across the quiet room. She smiled when she said it, the same smile she gave me every Christmas when she handed me a gift card to Target while giving Veronica expensive jewelry. Even before the affair, Dorothy had been planning my replacement.
My lawyer, Mr. Peterson, sat beside me shuffling through papers. He looked nervous, like he knew we were about to lose everything. Benjamin’s legal team had three lawyers, all from the most expensive firm in the city.
They had briefcases full of documents showing how I had never worked, how I had no skills, how I deserved nothing more than basic support. They painted me as a gold digger who had trapped their poor, innocent client. Judge Hawkins, a woman in her 50s with sharp eyes and graying hair, had been listening to their arguments all morning.
She had a reputation for being tough but fair. She didn’t smile much, and she didn’t seem impressed by expensive suits or fancy lawyers. But even she looked like she was ready to rule in Benjamin’s favor.
«Your Honor,» Benjamin’s lead lawyer said, standing up with a thick folder in his hands, «my client has been more than generous. Mrs. Foster has no work experience, no education beyond high school, and no assets of her own. She lived a comfortable life for eight years without contributing anything to the household income.»
«A modest monthly allowance is more than fair.» I wanted to laugh. No work experience? I had managed Benjamin’s entire social calendar, organized his business dinners, and handled all the household management that kept his life running smoothly.
No education? I had a marketing degree that I never got to use because Benjamin convinced me I didn’t need to work. No assets? That was because every time I tried to save money or start my own account, Benjamin found a reason why I couldn’t. But I sat quietly, playing the part they all expected me to play.
The weak, helpless wife who didn’t understand money or business, or how the real world worked. I had been playing this part for so long that sometimes I almost believed it myself. Benjamin turned to look at me, his dark eyes full of satisfaction.
He thought he had broken me completely. For the past six months since I discovered his affair, he had been preparing for this moment. He moved money around, hid assets, and made sure everything looked like it belonged to him alone. He thought I was too stupid to notice, too scared to fight back.
Mr. Peterson stood up slowly, like he was walking to his own execution. «Your Honor, I have one final piece of evidence to present on behalf of my client.» His voice shook slightly as he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a white envelope. «Mrs. Foster has prepared a letter for the court’s consideration.»
Benjamin’s lawyer looked confused. They hadn’t been told about any letter. Benjamin frowned, his confident smile fading just a little. Veronica shifted in her seat, her perfect posture becoming slightly less perfect. Dorothy’s cold eyes narrowed as she watched Mr. Peterson walk toward the judge’s bench.
Judge Hawkins took the envelope and opened it carefully. The room was so quiet I could hear the paper rustling as she unfolded the letter. Her eyes moved across the page, reading silently. At first, her expression didn’t change. Then, slowly, her eyebrows began to rise.
She read for what felt like forever. Benjamin’s lawyers started whispering to each other. Benjamin himself was staring at me now, trying to figure out what I could possibly have written that would matter. He still looked confident, but there was something else in his eyes now, something that might have been worry.
Judge Hawkins finished reading and looked up at everyone gathered before her. Then, something amazing happened. She started to laugh. Not a polite chuckle, but a real, deep laugh that echoed off the walls. She laughed so hard she had to put the letter down and take off her glasses to wipe her eyes.
«Oh, this is good,» she said quietly, but her voice carried in the silent room. She looked directly at Benjamin, then at Veronica, then at Dorothy. «This is very good indeed.»
The confident smiles disappeared from their faces like someone had turned off a light switch. Benjamin’s face went pale. Veronica’s mouth fell open slightly. Dorothy’s cold composure cracked, and for the first time in eight years, she looked genuinely afraid. I felt a small smile tug at the corner of my mouth. Finally, after months of planning and preparing, it was time for them to learn the truth.
Three years ago, I thought I had the perfect marriage. Benjamin would come home from work with flowers, kiss me at the door, and tell me how lucky he was to have me. We lived in his family’s beautiful house on Maple Street, with its white columns and perfectly manicured lawn. I felt like a princess in a fairy tale.
«Carmen, you don’t need to worry about money,» Benjamin said one evening as we sat at our dining room table. He was cutting his steak with precise movements, the way his mother had taught him. «I make enough for both of us. You should focus on making our home beautiful.»
I had been working at a small marketing company downtown, helping local businesses with their advertising. I loved my job, loved the creative challenges and the feeling of accomplishment when a campaign succeeded. But Benjamin had been hinting for months that I should quit.
«But I enjoy working,» I said, twirling my pasta around my fork. «And the extra money helps us save for our future.»
Benjamin set down his knife and looked at me with those dark eyes that used to make my heart skip. «Sweetheart, we don’t need your little salary. It’s barely enough to cover your gas and work clothes anyway. Wouldn’t you rather spend your time making our home perfect? Maybe start planning for children?»
The way he said «little salary» made my cheeks burn. I made decent money, enough to pay for groceries and utilities. But when I looked around our expensive dining room with its crystal chandelier and imported furniture, I felt small. Maybe he was right. Maybe my contribution didn’t really matter.
«I suppose I could take some time off,» I said quietly.
Benjamin’s smile was brilliant. «That’s my smart girl. You’ll be so much happier at home.»
Within a month, I had quit my job. Benjamin took over all our finances, saying it would be easier if everything came from one account. He gave me a credit card for household expenses and told me to let him know if I needed anything else. At first, it felt nice to be taken care of. I spent my days decorating our home, cooking elaborate meals, and organizing Benjamin’s business dinners.
But slowly, things began to change. The credit card had a low limit, and Benjamin questioned every purchase. When I bought new curtains for the living room, he asked why I hadn’t consulted him first. When I spent $50 on groceries, he wanted to see every receipt.
«Carmen, we need to be more careful with money,» he said one evening, going through the credit card statement with a red pen. «This coffee shop charge, what was that for?»
«I met my friend Lisa for coffee,» I said, feeling like a child being scolded. «It was only $8.»
«$8 here, $12 there, it adds up. Maybe you should invite your friends here instead. It’s more economical.»
I stopped meeting friends for coffee. Then I stopped buying new clothes without asking first. Then I stopped buying anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Benjamin praised me for being so responsible, so understanding about our budget. But I noticed he still bought expensive suits and went out for business lunches that cost more than my entire weekly allowance.
Dorothy made everything worse. Benjamin’s mother visited every Sunday for dinner, and she always had something to say about how I was managing the house. The flowers in the garden weren’t arranged properly. The dinner wasn’t seasoned correctly. My dress was too casual for a Foster family meal.
«Benjamin, dear,» she said one Sunday, cutting her roast beef into tiny pieces. «I saw the most lovely girl at the country club yesterday, Veronica Hayes, the interior designer. She’s from such a good family, and her work is absolutely exquisite.»
Benjamin nodded politely, but I caught something in his expression. Interest, maybe. «I’ve heard of her work. Very talented.»
«You should hire her to redo the guest rooms,» Dorothy continued, not looking at me. «They could use a professional touch.»
I had spent weeks decorating those guest rooms, choosing colors and fabrics that I thought were beautiful. But sitting there listening to Dorothy, I felt like everything I did was wrong, amateur, not good enough for their family standards.
