Subtitle: He thought he was securing my future. I was securing my freedom.
They call him The King of Real Estate — my husband, the man with more mansions than morals.
Every time he disappeared, I’d get a gift. Not flowers. Not apologies. But property.
“Just in case something happens to me,” he’d say as he placed yet another deed into my hands, freshly notarized, cleanly signed. I stopped asking where he was going after property number 47. By the time we hit 99, I knew the pattern by heart:
He disappears → I cry → He returns → I get richer.
Only… something changed on the 99th.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t ask.
Instead, I did something he never saw coming.
The Queen of Nothing
You see, I once believed his wealth made me lucky. While other women worried about rent, I chose between estates. But you can’t mortgage self-worth, and you can’t pay off loneliness.
Each property he handed over felt less like a gift and more like a bribe.
Until one day, I stopped feeling bought.
The Switch
On the 100th handoff, I smiled like always. He looked at me with soft eyes — maybe guilt, maybe nostalgia.
“When I get back,” he said, “we’ll watch the fireworks together.”
I nodded sweetly. Tucked the papers away.
But what he signed that day wasn’t a deed transfer.
It was a divorce settlement.
Irrevocable. Ironclad. Fair market valuation of every single asset.
I didn’t take just a mansion this time. I took half his empire.
The Real Fireworks
When the sky lit up that night, I was already gone.
No text. No note. Just a lawyer waiting at his door with a thick envelope and a polite smile.
Because when a man builds an empire on lies and underestimates the woman holding the title deeds…
He forgets: paper cuts both ways.
EPILOGUE:
I don’t cry anymore. I own the skyline now.
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