Chapter 3 - The Other Woman's True Colors
Desperate, humiliated, and running on pure adrenaline, I drove straight to Samantha’s upscale apartment complex. She lived in a trendy high-rise downtown—rent paid partially by me, a fact that suddenly made me feel sick to my stomach.
I swiped my key fob and rode the elevator to the twelfth floor, banging frantically on her door.
When the lock clicked and the door swung open, Samantha stood there wearing a silk robe, holding a mimosa, looking like a carefree Instagram model. Her smile faltered when she saw my disheveled appearance, my wrinkled shirt, and the dark circles under my eyes.
"Richard? What are you doing here? You look terrible. You missed our lunch date yesterday—"
"Claire left," I blurted out, pushing past her into the apartment. "She took Hope. She took the furniture, the clothes, everything. My accounts are frozen, and I just got suspended from my job."
Samantha stared at me as if I was speaking a foreign language. She slowly set her glass down on the marble countertop, her expression shifting from confusion to cold, hardened annoyance.
"What do you mean, she left?" Samantha asked, crossing her arms. "What does that have to do with me? And more importantly, what do you mean your accounts are frozen?"
"I mean we have no money, Sam! My wife knows everything. She has pictures, receipts, hotel records—everything!"
Samantha let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Are you kidding me? You let your wife track you? I told you to be careful! I told you not to leave a paper trail!"
"You told me to buy you diamond bracelets and luxury bags!" I shouted, the realization of my own idiocy finally breaking through the fog. "You drained me, Samantha! Every single weekend, while my wife was recovering from childbirth, you demanded luxury, attention, and expensive dinners!"
"Oh, please, don't play the victim with me!" Samantha snapped back, her voice raising to a screech. "I never asked you to leave your wife! You’re the one who promised me a future, who swore you were falling out of love with her! I don't do drama, Richard. And I certainly don't do broke men."
Her words cut deeper than any knife. I don't do broke men.
All those sweet whispers, all those late-night declarations of passion, all the intimacy built on stolen moments—it hinged entirely on my corporate title and my credit limit.
"So that's it?" I whispered, staring at the woman I had risked my entire family for. "After everything I gave up for you... this is how you react?"
"Get out," Samantha said, pointing a manicured finger toward the door. "Pack your bags, figure out your messy life, and do not call me until you're a millionaire again. Until then, we are done."
May you like
The door slammed shut in my face.
Standing in the hallway of Samantha’s apartment building, listening to the muffled sound of her locking the deadbolt behind me, I finally broke. I slid down the wall to the carpeted floor and wept. I had lost my wife, my daughter, my home, my career, and now, the very mistress I had traded them all for had discarded me like a used tissue.
