When Roger and I first stood on that empty plot, I saw our future — golden hills,

pine-scented air, and the dream home we’d imagined for years. We’d spent

late nights designing, arguing over cabinet colors, and sketching plans on napkins.

Every inch of that house was supposed to be us.bI wanted a big kitchen.

He made it happen. He handled the paperwork, the mortgage — all of it.

“Easier this way,” he’d say. And I trusted him.bThe day we moved in,

I whispered, “We did it.” Roger wrapped me in a hug and said,

“Welcome to forever.”bBut forever didn’t last long. Roger grew distant

— hushed calls, sudden trips, empty excuses. One day, looking for an

insurance form, I found the property deed. It wasn’t in my name. It wasn’t

in our name. It was in hers — Rachel Carter. His assistant. He’d given

her our house. Before we’d even moved in,

That night, I cooked his favorite meal, poured him a drink, and handed him the deed.

He paled. Tried to explain.bI didn’t scream. I just said, “You married a

smarter woman than you realized.” The next morning, I met with a lawyer.

We went to court. The judge ruled the transfer fraudulent. Rachel disappeared.

Roger was forced to sell. With my half, I bought a small beach cottage.

Just mine. Now, I sit on the porch with a glass of wine, watching the waves.

Roger thought he could erase me. Instead, he erased himself. And I rebuilt — on better ground.