Valerie
I didn't give Michael an ultimatum because I was desperate. I did it because I was done waiting. Ten years. Ten long years of supporting him, lifting him up, paying his bills when his paycheck was barely enough to pay rent. And for what? A never-ending cycle of "soon, baby, just a little longer". No, time was up.
So I did what any rational, self-respecting woman would do—I laid down the law.
"Marry me," I said over dinner, my fork poised mid-air, "or pay me back for every single thing I've ever done for you."
Michael choked on his wine. He coughed, eyes darting between me and the restaurant exit like he was considering making a run for it. But he knew better. He knew I wasn't bluffing.
"You're joking," he tried, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
I took a slow sip of my wine, letting the weight of my words sink in.
"Try me."
He didn't try me. Instead, three weeks later, we stood at the altar exchanging vows. I was radiant, victorious. He was stiff, like a man walking into a trap. Which, to be fair, he was.
I should have known something was off when, instead of spending our wedding night basking in newlywed bliss, Michael spent three hours locked in his study, "handling business." I chalked it up to nerves.
But the real shocker came a week after our honeymoon.
"Wait… you bought an apartment complex?" I stared at him, mouth open, gripping my coffee mug like it was the only thing keeping me from launching across the kitchen island.
Michael shifted uncomfortably. "I've been saving for years."
"Years?" I let out a short, humorless laugh. "So you had money?"
"Not exactly." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I just planned it carefully."
Planned it? Carefully? Something wasn't adding up.
"So," I said slowly, placing my mug down. "You've been scraping by for years, yet somehow, you managed to buy an entire apartment complex right after our wedding?"
Michael's jaw twitched. That's when I knew with every fiber of my being—something shady was going on.
I folded my arms. "Where is it?"
His head snapped up. "What?"
"The apartment complex. Where is it?"
He hesitated. "It's… in Midtown."
"Oh." I smiled sweetly. "Perfect. Let's move in."
Michael paled. "What?"
"You heard me. We should live there."
He let out a nervous chuckle. "Babe, we don't have to do that. It's an investment property."
"All the more reason to be there. I'd love to manage it with you." I tilted my head, watching him squirm. "Unless… there's a reason you don't want me there?"
He opened his mouth, closed it, then forced a tight smile.
"Of course not."
I grinned. Checkmate.
...
A week later, we moved into the complex, and I realized something hilarious—Michael was miserable.
"Babe, the plumbing is old," he grumbled, staring at the exposed pipes in the bathroom.
"Then we'll fix it."
He groaned when we discovered our upstairs neighbor was a retired opera singer with an addiction to late-night karaoke. I, however, found it delightful.
"You love this, don't you?" he muttered, watching me sip tea while listening to Mrs. Alcott's wobbly rendition of 'My Heart Will Go On'
I smirked. "Absolutely."
But beneath the small victories, I knew something was wrong. Michael was restless, always distracted, constantly checking his phone. And then, one night, I found his folder—his divorce folder.
I wasn't snooping. Okay, maybe a little. But this man left a clearly labeled file on his desk: DIVORCE PLAN – 10-YEAR TIMELINE. How was I not supposed to look?
I flipped it open and nearly dropped the papers.
> Year 1: Secure apartment complex.
> Year 5: Build financial stability while keeping Valerie unaware.
> Year 10: Divorce. Repay Valerie's financial support in full. Walk away free.
My blood ran cold. My husband had been planning his grand escape before we even said I do.
I slammed the folder shut, my mind racing. He wanted to repay me? Like I was some business transaction? Yeah I asked for it because I thought he wouldn't be able to pay me back.
Fine. Two could play this game.
I straightened, a slow smirk curling my lips. If Michael thought he could just walk away after ten years, he had another thing coming. Let the games begin.
...
The next morning, I kissed Michael sweetly before he left for work, acting like nothing had changed.
That evening, I made my move.
I met with the property lawyer and pulled out the contract Michael had signed when purchasing the complex. And there it was, the beautiful loophole he had overlooked.
In the event of marriage, the property becomes shared marital asset.
I grinned.
"Mrs. Carter," the lawyer said, eyeing me curiously, "would you like to move forward with the ownership adjustment?"
I slid the signed papers across the desk. "Absolutely."
Michael wanted an exit strategy?
Too bad. Because now, he wasn't just stuck with me.
He was stuck in my building, my marriage, and my rules.
Game on, husband. Game on.