After five years of marriage, I thought my husband Logan and I could survive anything — even the heartbreak of struggling to conceive. But while I sank into depression, blaming myself, Logan sought comfort elsewhere. One night, my best friend Lola took me out to a jazz club to lift my spirits. What she didn’t expect — and what shattered me completely — was spotting Logan across the room, wrapped in the arms of another woman. I confronted him, expecting shame or at least remorse. Instead, he laughed. “I’m in love with someone else,” he said. “We’re done.” I was numb, but the worst was yet to come.

The next morning, I returned home hoping for clarity, only to find my belongings thrown on the front lawn like trash. Logan, standing smugly beside his mistress, informed me that since the house was in his family’s name, I was being evicted. His cruelty was stunning, and even as I packed my car under their watchful eyes, humiliation burning through me, I never could have predicted the twist that was coming. A sleek black car pulled up, and out stepped Mr. Duncan — Logan’s wealthy, no-nonsense grandfather. He took one look at the chaos and erupted. “You kicked my favorite granddaughter-in-law out for a tramp? Pack your things, Logan. You’re done.”