“This apartment was bought during our marriage, community property, so we’ll split it right down the middle!” Lysander, my husband, he just declared that in court. His mother, Evangeline, sitting right there, she smirked. A subtle smirk. Her eyes, they were gleaming with triumph. But ten minutes later? Poof. Smiles gone. Replaced by utter shock. Furious indignation. Before we dive into this mess, tell me, what country are you watching this from? Enjoy the story, if you can.
I remember my wedding day. Like yesterday, but also, like a hazy dream. That white dress, pristine. The excitement, it was breathtaking. My heart, it felt like it’d jump right out. Friends and family, all those radiant smiles, sparkling under the New York summer sun. And Lysander, of course. So charming. So confident. Dark, curly hair. Deep blue eyes, a mystery in ’em. He stood there, like a living sculpture. Everyone looked. Every single gaze. At that moment, I, Seraphina Thorne, a Senior Marketing Director. Ambitious. Top tech corporation in Manhattan. I believed. Truly. Found my soulmate. The man. Ready to share my whole life. Every dream. Every aspiration. I built everything myself. From scratch. A luxurious penthouse. Upper East Side. Park views. A brand-new Range Rover. Latest model. Stable bank account. Always. Lived a life, no financial worries. Lysander? He was different. A freelance art photographer. Passionate soul. Always chasing beauty. Perfection. Every frame. But his finances? Incredibly precarious. He lived by inspiration. Sometimes big projects. Renowned galleries. Sometimes nothing. Just unsold photos. Mounting bills. But I didn’t care. Not really. In his “impractical” romanticism, I saw something. Special charm. A fresh, wild breeze. Blew right into my meticulously organized, planned, sometimes dull life. He was a soaring dreamer. I, a realist. Drawn to that opposite difference. I believed. Love could bridge any gap. Fill every void.
The first few months of our marriage. They were idyllic. A wordless love song. Sweet. So serene. We explored unique eateries. Hidden in Greenwich Village alleys. Strolled through Central Park. Golden autumn sun. Made romantic dinners ourselves. In my apartment. Flickering candlelight. Soothing jazz. Lysander, he was engrossed in his photographs. Haunting. Profound works of art. I was captivated. Watching him. Admiring his innate talent. The way he immersed himself. Every frame. Every moment. I gladly supported him. Every possible way. No hesitation. Bought him the most expensive cameras. Sharpest lenses. Modern darkroom equipment. Even helped him organize small exhibitions. Independent art galleries. Connected him with critics. Collectors. I loved feeling like his muse. His endless source. Inspiration. The one behind him. Helping him realize his artistic dreams. Money? For me, never an end. I believed. Love. Understanding. Mutual support. A promising future. That’s what mattered.
About a year into our marriage. Time to expand. I felt it. Create a true home. For both of us. Grand plans. My penthouse, spacious. Luxurious. But now? A bit cramped. For two. And our dreams of a small family. I suggested to Lysander. Buy a new, larger apartment. Maybe an even more magnificent penthouse. Panoramic views. Hudson River. Manhattan skyline. A modern, exclusive complex. Tribeca. Lysander, he enthusiastically embraced my idea. His eyes. Lit up. Excitement. “That’s a brilliant idea, my dearest Seraphina!” he exclaimed. Pulled me into a tight hug. Warm breath. Caressing my hair. “We definitely need more space for my creativity, and… perhaps for our future little ones?” I smiled. My heart. Pounding. Happiness. Hope. Children. I’d dreamed of that. For a long time. A small family. Children’s laughter. Echoing in our new home.
I immediately started searching. After a few weeks. Found the perfect apartment. Exceeded all expectations. A two-story penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Overlooking the entire city. Sparkling river. Shimmering like a silver ribbon. Its price? Not small. Nearly ten million dollars. But I could afford it. Fully. Had substantial savings. Years of hard work. My generous salary. Allowed me to easily take out a mortgage. If needed. No financial worries.
When I told Lysander about my decision. His reaction? Completely unexpected. Made me pause. He was sitting in the leather armchair. Flipping through an expensive art magazine. I spoke. He put the magazine down. His gaze. Distant. Like he was thinking something really important.
Me: “Lysander, I found an amazing apartment in Tribeca. River views, two floors. Big enough for us. For a small family, eventually. I think we should buy it.”
Lysander: (A soft sigh, a pensive look) “That sounds wonderful, Seraphina. I know you always have impeccable taste. But… I think it would be better if you put the apartment solely in your name.”
Me: (Surprised, a little confused) “Why, Lysander? We’re a family, aren’t we? Our joint property?” A tiny flicker of doubt. It snuck in. But I pushed it away. Fast. Figured he was just worried about me.
Lysander stood up. Walked over to me. Took my hand. Gently stroked my knuckles with his thumb. His eyes. Full of sincerity. A hint of feigned concern. Like an actor. Performing a tragic scene. “Well, look,” — he began to explain. His voice. Soft. Persuasive. — “You know I’m an artist, right? My income can be… quite unstable. Sometimes many projects, money flows. Sometimes nothing. Just unsold photos. You understand? I don’t want you to bear any trouble. Any legal burden. Because of me. You’re a successful woman. I don’t want to stain your brilliant career with my financial issues.”
Me: (Considering his words, feeling touched) “I understand your point. But we’re married, you don’t need to worry like that.”
Lysander: “I know, but I want to protect you. You are my everything. Moreover,” — he continued, sensing my hesitation, he gently squeezed my hand, his voice becoming more persuasive, full of concern. — “There are so many divorces these days, you see, the news is full of couples fighting over assets, costly legal battles. I don’t even want to think about it, it makes me sick. But you know what they say: ‘Better safe than sorry.’ If the apartment is just in your name, it will feel… more proper, safer for you. I am your husband, I trust you completely, I don’t need a piece of paper to prove that. Our love is greater than all these legal formalities.” He then added, almost in a whisper, like an afterthought that nonetheless touched my deepest fears: “And I really don’t want anyone to think I married you for your money, for your status. I love you for who you are, Seraphina, for your soul, for your strength.”
Those last words. They touched me. Melted away any lingering doubts. I’d always harbored a quiet fear. People might whisper. He was with me for my wealth. Now, he himself. Dispelled those doubts. With his “sincerity.” His “sacrifice.” With his honeyed words. “Alright,” — I said. A faint smile. Playing on my lips. Feeling incredibly lucky. Such a thoughtful, selfless husband. — “I’ll put the apartment in my name.” I was convinced. Doing the right thing. After all, what truly mattered? Trust. Love. Not dry legal procedures. Or numbers on paper. I placed my complete trust in him.
The transaction. It went smoothly. Quickly. Like everything in my life usually did. I completed all the paperwork. In my name. Became the proud owner. Our beautiful new penthouse. Lysander, he was delighted with me. Brimming with enthusiasm. Helped me choose wallpapers. Furniture. From luxurious leather sofas. To abstract paintings for the walls. He sketched out colorful future plans. For our home. Lavish parties. Lazy weekend mornings. Cozy little nooks. For future children. The renovation. Lasted several months. Transforming the raw apartment. Into a vibrant artistic masterpiece. A space reflecting my elegant style. And his creativity. I covered all the expenses. No hesitation. Builders’ fees. High-end materials. Imported from Italy. Custom-made furniture. From Paris. The most modern kitchen appliances. From Germany. Lysander, for his part. Helped me choose designs. Offering unique. Interesting interior solutions. Turning every corner. Into a work of art. A perfect frame. For his photographs. He spent hours online. Researching various styles. Trends. From modern minimalism. To classic luxury. He even drew detailed sketches. I loved observing his passion. How actively he participated. Furnishing our new home. Even though. In essence. He hadn’t contributed a single penny. Not a single dime. From his own pocket. He only offered ideas. And I was the one who paid. But I didn’t mind. I believed his attention. Care. Creative ideas. What truly mattered. The invaluable “contribution” of an artist.
When the renovation was complete. We hosted a grand housewarming party. Invited all our friends. Relatives. Prominent figures. New York’s art and business circles. We proudly showed off our new apartment. Receiving endless congratulations. Admiration. Everyone marveled. The spaciousness. The trendy design. Especially the breathtaking view. From the windows. Overlooking the entire city. Sparkling like a diamond carpet. Beneath our feet. I felt truly happy. A complete. Fulfilling happiness. I had a wonderful apartment. A loving husband. A stable. Promising career. Life, it seemed. Was perfect. Down to the smallest detail.
But happiness. We all know. Can be a cruel deception. A fragile. Crystal-like illusion. Gradually. Subtly. Almost imperceptibly. I began to feel Lysander. Drifting away. He spent less time at home. Romantic dinners. Disappeared. Replaced by brief messages. About him being “busy.” Or having “sudden photo shoots.” He often returned late. From his studio. Citing urgent projects. All-night shoots. Mysterious meetings. With collectors. Or new “muses.” He no longer asked about my workday. No longer seemed interested. My challenging marketing projects. Or the successes I achieved. Our conversations. Became superficial. Revolving only around trivial matters. His eyes. Often avoided mine. When I tried to look deeply. Searching for a connection. I tried to talk to him. Understand what was really happening. Salvage our marriage. But he’d always brush me off. Saying he was just going through a difficult period. That he needed more space. To find his artistic inspiration. He said I was too “realistic.” Too “pressuring.” Too “controlling.” And that it made him “suffocate.” “Lose his freedom as an artist.” I could feel an invisible wall. Growing between us. A cold wall. Of distance. And deceit. I tried to break it down. In every way. With infinite patience. With blind love. With efforts to reconcile. Arranging trips. Surprising dates. But all my attempts. Futile. Lysander became increasingly cold. Distant. Unapproachable. Even irritable. He started disappearing all night. Only returning in the early morning. With the smell of alcohol. And strange perfume.
One fateful evening. I returned home. After a stressful, exhausting day at work. Still looking forward to seeing him. Leaning on his familiar shoulder. I stepped into the living room. The sight. It shattered my world. In an instant. Like a mirror. Breaking into a thousand pieces. Lysander. Embracing another woman. On the luxurious leather sofa. I had carefully chosen. She was Isolde. A young artist. Fiery red hair. Piercing blue eyes. Full of defiance. A sly smile. She was one of his new “muses.” I’d vaguely heard rumors about. Her red hair. Starkly contrasted. With the muted, elegant tones. Of our living room. Creating a glaring, painful sight. Like a stain. On a perfect painting. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The man I loved. The man I trusted implicitly. The man to whom I had given my heart. My soul. And my assets. Had cruelly. And brazenly. Betrayed me. Right in our own home.
Me: (Voice trembling, but trying to stay calm) “Lysander… what is this?”
Lysander: (Stuttering, quickly releasing Isolde, his face pale with panic, his eyes wide with guilt and confusion) “Eleanor… it’s not what you think! I swear! This is just a misunderstanding! Isolde is just… a colleague!”
Isolde: (Glancing at Lysander, then looking at me with a sly smile) “Oh, a colleague, Lysander? Are you sure? You weren’t saying that last night.”
Me: (Feeling my blood boil, my voice surprisingly firm) “No, it’s exactly what I think, Lysander! This scene, this brazenness, cannot be misunderstood! Do you think I’m blind? Or do you think I’m so stupid I wouldn’t recognize the truth?” I felt a surge of disgust in my throat. “Both of you, get out of my apartment. IMMEDIATELY! Never come back here again!”
Lysander: (Trying to step closer to me, hand reaching out) “Eleanor, please! Let me explain! You’re misunderstanding!”
Me: (Stepping back, my eyes cold as ice) “There’s nothing to explain! I saw everything! You betrayed me, right here in this house! You destroyed everything!”
Isolde: (Standing up, a defiant look on her face) “Hey, what right does she have to say that? This is his apartment, isn’t it, Lysander?”
Lysander: (Looking at Isolde, then at me, confused) “Isolde, shut up! Not now!”
Me: (A bitter, cynical laugh) “His apartment? She’s right, Lysander. Do you think this is your apartment? What right do you think you have here?”
Lysander and his mistress, Isolde, hastily gathered their belongings, Isolde’s eyes darting a defiant, almost pitying glance at me before she hurried away, like a mouse scurrying into its hole. Lysander lingered for a moment, his eyes pleading, his lips moving as if to speak, but I simply pointed to the door, my gaze cold as ice, showing no mercy. Finally, he turned and left, leaving me alone in the vast penthouse apartment, which now felt empty and chillingly cold, like a tomb for our love. My heart shattered into a thousand pieces, a profound sense of helplessness washing over me. I sank onto the sofa, the plush velvet now offering no comfort, and wept uncontrollably, my heart-wrenching sobs echoing through the room. The pain was excruciating, a raw wound of betrayal, humiliation, and my own foolishness. I didn’t know what to do next. My mind reeled, a whirlwind of agonizing questions, fragmented memories of shattered happiness: “How could he do this to me? Did he ever truly love me, or was it just a perfect play staged to exploit me? Was I just a means to an end for him, a walking ATM, a naive fool?”
I remembered Lysander’s words. He didn’t want anyone to think he married me for my money. Now, the irony. A terrible, bitter taste. In my mouth. Made me want to vomit. A taste of lies. And deceit. It was all a game. A calculated manipulation. An elaborate play. Staged down to the smallest detail. He wanted to convince me. Of his sincerity. Ensure I never doubted his true intentions. So I would willingly give him everything. From my heart. To my assets. I stood up from the sofa. My body heavy. But my mind. Strangely clear. Like I’d just woken from a trance. I walked to the panoramic window. The city lights. Twinkled below. Like fallen stars. Scattered across the dark canvas of Manhattan. But they no longer held romantic beauty. Only soulless. Cold pinpricks of light. A cold. Sharp. Razor-like determination. Ignited within me. I would not let Lysander destroy my life. I would prove to him. And to myself. That I was a strong. Independent woman. And I could not be exploited. I could not be defeated.
Lysander filed for divorce. A week after he left. Like he was in a hurry. To end everything. To quickly seize my assets. I anticipated it. But the official notification. Still sent a shiver down my spine. A feeling of disgust. Rising in my throat. Along with the divorce petition. Came a brazen demand. For property division. Specifically, that very penthouse apartment. The apartment I bought. With my sweat and tears. The apartment registered solely in my name. Trusting his words. About trust. And avoiding risks. I sighed. Carefully placing the papers on the table. Trying to stay calm. I had a crucial presentation at work tomorrow. And I couldn’t let my emotions overwhelm me now. I had to be strong.
But that evening. Returning to the empty apartment. I let my emotions take over. Anger. Flared like a consuming fire. Humiliation. Gnawed at my soul. Disappointment. Swallowed all hope. All blending. Into a bitter, disgusting cocktail. Made me want to smash everything. I felt utterly betrayed. Not just in love. But in the most fundamental trust. In humanity. In the values I once believed in. The issue wasn’t money. It was principle. It was humiliation. It was blatant disregard. He didn’t just use me. He tried to steal what was rightfully mine. Brazenly. Shamelessly. As if I had no rights. Whatsoever.
Me: (Calling Astrid, my voice choked with tears) “Astrid… I can’t believe this. Lysander… he betrayed me. And now he wants to take my apartment too!”
Astrid: (Voice full of indignation over the phone) “What?! That’s unacceptable! I told you, Seraphina. All those ‘artists’ are just glorified gold-diggers, leeches, professional scammers! You have to fight! Don’t let him take anything from you!”
Me: “I know, I’ll fight. But I don’t know where to start. I feel like my whole world is collapsing.”
Astrid: “Don’t worry, I’ll be by your side. At least now you have an amazing story for your memoirs, a lifelong lesson! You have to get up, Seraphina! You’re stronger than you think!”
I managed a weak smile. But my lips trembled. Astrid always knew how to find humor. In the darkest situations. But beneath her jokes. I felt her genuine support. A sturdy shoulder. To lean on. An invisible source of strength. “I won’t give up easily, Astrid; I will fight for what’s mine, for justice, for my honor!” I declared. My voice firm. Like a vow. To myself. To the universe.
Manh mối 1: Prenuptial Agreement
The preparation for court. Lasted several weeks. Each day. A battle. With emotions. And the complexities of the law. A race against time. I meticulously gathered all the necessary documents. The apartment purchase agreement. In my name. Bank statements. From my personal account. Confirming I paid for the entire apartment myself. With my savings. And salary. Every single penny. Not missing a dime. And most importantly. In a moment of epiphany. As I was rummaging through an old safe at home. I suddenly remembered. The prenuptial agreement.
Me: (Muttering to myself, upon finding the document) “Oh my God… The prenuptial agreement! How could I have forgotten it?”
Yes, the prenuptial agreement! It had been signed years ago. A standard formality. My family lawyer insisted on it. When Lysander and I first got engaged. At that time, Lysander barely bothered to glance at it. He just signed it off. Dismissing it. “Just a silly legal thing. A meaningless piece of paper between our love. An insult to true love.” I had almost completely forgotten about it. A testament. To how deeply I had trusted him. Believing his sweet words. Believing in what he called “true love.” Now, it was not just a piece of paper. But my strongest shield. The ultimate weapon. Against greed. And deceit. Undeniable proof.
Manh mối 2: Legal Support and Preparation
I meticulously reviewed the relevant provisions. Of the Matrimonial Causes Act. Every word. Every comma. And sought the assistance. Of a seasoned divorce lawyer. Attorney Alistair Finch. Known for his sharp mind. Excellent analytical skills. Unwavering resolve. In complex cases. Especially those involving assets.
Me: (Meeting Mr. Finch at his office) “Mr. Finch, I need your help. My husband, Lysander, is trying to seize my apartment after he betrayed me.”
Attorney Finch: (Listening carefully, nodding) “I’ve reviewed your file, Seraphina. This is a fairly straightforward case, especially with the existence of this prenuptial agreement. You did very well to keep it.”
Me: “He said he didn’t need it, that he trusted me. I believed him.”
Attorney Finch: “That’s an old trick, madam. But fortunately, we have the evidence. Lysander made a big mistake by having you put all the property in your name and by signing this prenuptial agreement. He was too complacent, too dismissive of you. We will use his own complacency and disregard for the law against him. This will be a costly lesson for him, a lesson he will never forget.”
Mr. Finch guided me. Step by step. Helping me systematically organize the evidence. From old messages. Emails. To bank transactions. Even the smallest unpaid bills. From Lysander. We prepared thoroughly. For every scenario.
Tiết lộ chính: The Trial and Verdict
On the day of the trial. I tried to maintain my composure. Inside, though. I was seething. Extreme anxiety. Uncontrollable righteous anger. A touch of fear. I wore a sharp, carefully tailored business suit. Charcoal gray. A silent statement. Of my confidence. And determination. Not a single wrinkle. Like a warrior. Preparing for battle. Lysander. In stark contrast. Looked annoyingly self-satisfied. Relaxed. He even smirked. Like he’d won already. Like I was just a puppet. In his hands. Beside him. His mother. Mrs. Evangeline Blackwood. Her face. Contorted. Hateful. Arrogant sneer. Her eyes. Looking at me. Like I was a parasite. A thief.
Mrs. Evangeline: (Hissing, her voice falsely sweet, but full of contempt and venom) “Well, Eleanor, dear? You didn’t really think it would end so simply, did you? You think you can steal everything from my son? By law, half the apartment belongs to my precious boy! He’s a creative soul, he needs a place to live and create! You can’t take his home, you wicked woman!”
I simply looked at her. My gaze steady. Expressionless. Like a stone statue. I had long understood. Mrs. Evangeline. The main instigator. In this whole sordid affair. She always supported her son. In all his endeavors. Even when they were clearly dishonest. Even outright fraudulent.
The trial began. Formal procedures. Slowly. Tensely. Lysander’s lawyer. Attorney Silas Croft. Young. Arrogant. Overly confident. Argued the apartment. Acquired during marriage. Therefore, Community property. Regardless of whose name. Registered under. He emphasized Lysander “contributed.” To the family budget. With his “creativity.” And “artistic spirit.” By “inspiring” me. Though not as significantly. As I had. He even pulled out photos. Lysander “helping” me choose furniture. As if that were proof. Financial contribution. A blatant insult.
Attorney Croft: “Your Honor, my client, Mr. Lysander Blackwood, contributed not only spiritually but also materially to the creation of this home. He is an artist, and his creativity is invaluable. He spent hours designing the interior, choosing every small detail, transforming this apartment into a masterpiece. That is an undeniable contribution!”
Me: (Listening to him with an impassive expression, though inside I was seething, wanting to stand up and scream at him) “Spiritual contribution? He didn’t spend a single penny!”
When it was my turn. I calmly presented my documents. One by one. Clearly. Articulately. Without a tremor. The purchase agreement. In my name. Bank statements. From my personal account. Confirming I paid for the entire apartment. With specific figures. Every single penny. Not missing a dime. And finally. Decisively. I placed the prenuptial agreement on the table. Stamped bright red.
Attorney Finch: (Voice firm) “Your Honor, we have undeniable evidence that my client, Ms. Seraphina Thorne, purchased this apartment herself with her personal funds. Furthermore, we present the prenuptial agreement, signed by both parties, which clearly stipulates that personal property will not be divided in the event of divorce.”
A deathly silence. Fell over the courtroom. So quiet. You could hear a pin drop. The judge. Meticulously examined the documents. His gaze. Lingering on the prenuptial agreement. A small smile. Briefly appearing on his lips. Mrs. Evangeline. Squirmed in her seat. Her face. Gradually changing. From arrogant. To anxious. Then to stunned. Then to ashen. Sensing something. Going terribly wrong. A disaster. Imminent. Lysander. Still tried to maintain a facade of composure. But a clear flicker of anxiety. Appeared in his eyes. His lips. Moved silently. Sweat beaded. On his forehead.
Judge: (Announcing clearly, his voice echoing through the silent room, like a thunderclap striking Lysander and his mother, leaving them frozen) “According to Section 25 of the Matrimonial Causes Act, property acquired during the marriage, but with the personal funds of one spouse, is not considered community property and is not subject to division. In this case, the presented documents unequivocally demonstrate that the apartment was purchased by Ms. Seraphina Thorne exclusively with her personal funds. The prenuptial agreement further confirms this fact, with the signatures of both parties, legally notarized. Therefore, the court rules to dismiss Mr. Lysander Blackwood’s claim for the division of the apartment.”
A muffled gasp. Rippled through the courtroom. Followed by a low murmur. Then whispers. Mrs. Evangeline. Leaped from her seat. Her face. Flushed. Extreme anger. And indignation. Shouting: “How can this be?! This is unfair! My poor Julian will be out on the street! Is she too stingy to give him a piece of bread?! She’s a witch! She put a spell on my son!” The judge. Banged his gavel. Repeatedly. Forcefully. Calling for order. Lysander. Sat there. Head bowed. His face. Ashen. His eyes. Lifeless. He was completely shocked. Like a frozen statue. Unable to believe his ears. He hadn’t expected such a turn of events. And had been certain. The court would side with him. The law would be on his side. He could easily exploit me. He was accustomed. To getting what he wanted. With little effort. By manipulating others. By sweet lies. But this time. His calculations. Failed miserably. Completely. Utterly.
Resolution and Growth
I rose from my seat. Felt a strange lightness. A burden lifted. But in my eyes. No gloating. No pity. Only weariness. Deep disappointment. An indescribable sadness. “Court adjourned,” the judge announced. Everyone began to disperse. Whispers filling the room. Curious glances. Falling upon me.
Lysander. As if waking from a terrible dream. Rushed towards me. His eyes. Red with anger. And humiliation. His face. Contorted. “You… You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You knew I wouldn’t be able to prove anything? You planned it all! You’re a devil!” he hissed. His voice. Full of hatred. Like a cornered beast. Wanting to tear me apart.
I sighed. A tired but resolute sigh. “I was simply protecting what rightfully belongs to me, Lysander. You pushed me to this. You said you trusted me, that you didn’t want any business problems, and then you just betrayed me cruelly, brazenly. You dug your own grave.”
Mrs. Evangeline. Rushed to her son. Hugged him tightly. As if I’d just attacked him. Her eyes. Full of hatred. “Don’t listen to her, my precious Julian!” she wailed. Her voice. Shrill. Piercing. “She’s just jealous of you, of your talent! She’s a wicked woman! We’ll still prove that you deserve more! Mother won’t let you suffer, Mother will find a way to get revenge!” I silently turned. Walked out of the courtroom. Not wanting to waste another second. With them. Their words. Like needles. Piercing my ears.
Julian. Stormed out of the courtroom after me. As if he’d been kicked out. Completely devoid of dignity. His face. Flushed with rage. His fists. Clenched so tightly. His knuckles white. Veins bulging on his neck. Mrs. Evangeline. Breathing heavily. Hurried after him. Muttering something incoherent. About the unfairness of life. And corrupt judges. Those who “understand nothing about art.” Who “have no conscience.” He abruptly spun around. To face me. As I calmly walked out of the building. Adjusting my designer handbag. On my shoulder. Each step firm. Unwavering. In my eyes. No triumph. No malice. Only weariness. And a distant sense of regret. As if looking at a stranger. Someone who had once meant everything to me.
The Struggle:
“You… You said everything we had was shared!” Lysander hissed. Trying to keep his voice low. So as not to attract attention. Of passersby. But his voice. Still trembled. With anger. Almost breaking into tears. Tears welling up. “You promised! You swore! You lied to me!”
I stopped. Looked him straight in the eye. My gaze. As firm as steel. Unwavering. “I said we were a family, Lysander. Not that you would have access to my money. My assets. There’s a very big difference. Between those two things. I had hoped you understood that. But clearly you didn’t. You just wanted to exploit me, didn’t you?”
“A family? What kind of family is this if you hid everything, put everything in your name?” He gestured towards the courthouse. His face. Full of resentment. Like a child. Whose toy has been snatched away. “You never trusted me! You lied to me! You’re a traitor!”
“I did trust you,” I replied softly. My voice. Almost a whisper. But every word. Heavy with bitterness. “Too much. I believed in you. Believed that you wanted to achieve something in life. With your own talent. Not just live off me. Off my money. I was wrong. A big mistake. And I paid the price.”
Mrs. Evangeline. Rushing up to us. Her face. Contorted. Jabbed a finger at me. Almost touching my face. Her eyes. Wild with madness. “Oh, you materialistic woman! You used my son, played with him and then discarded him! My Julian is a talented artist, he needs inspiration, he needs freedom to create, not to slave away from morning till night like you! You are a destroyer of talent! You will pay for this!”
“Mother, that’s enough!” Lysander mumbled. Turning away from his mother. His face. Showing extreme shame. Even he. Seemed unable to bear her words. A hint of regret. Flashing in his eyes.
I sighed. A final sigh. For this relationship. For all that had passed. “Julian, I don’t want to prove anything to you anymore. We have too different views. On life. On family. On relationships. You are free. Completely free.” I turned to leave. But Lysander grabbed my arm. His hand. Cold. Trembling.
“You… You’re so cold! How can you be so calm after everything that’s happened? Don’t you have any feelings? Don’t you love me?”
I pulled my arm away. From his grasp. My eyes. Full of weariness. And exhaustion. But also. Full of resolve. “I’m not calm, Julian. I’m just tired. Tired of the lies. Of the manipulation. Of your childishness. And irresponsibility. I spent too much time. And energy. Trying to support you. To build a future for us. And in the end. I got a knife in the back.” I glanced at his lawyer. Attorney Silas Croft. Standing a little distance away. Avoiding my gaze. He silently looked away. Understanding he had lost miserably. Having nothing more to say. Even he. A cynical lawyer. Seemed to feel awkward. A little ashamed. Of his client. “Goodbye, Julian,” I said. My voice firm. Like a final farewell. And turned. Walking towards my car. Without looking back. Leaving everything behind.
That evening. Sitting in a familiar café. With Astrid. I recounted the day’s events. Every detail. Leaving nothing out. Astrid. As always. A bit cynical. But her support. Invaluable. Like a life raft. In a fierce storm. “Well, congratulations!” Astrid said. Sipping her latte. Her eyes. Full of relief. And pride. “You escaped that swamp! Now you’re officially a free woman. An independent queen. A strong woman!” “Free, and a little empty,” I admitted. The emptiness. Still lingering. Like a dull scar. “I thought after the trial I would feel completely relieved. But instead. There’s just a vast emptiness. An unnamed loss.” “That will pass,” Astrid reassured me. Holding my hand tightly. “Give yourself time to heal, Seraphina. Don’t rush. But at least now you know your worth. And you will never let anyone exploit you again. Never let anyone walk all over you again.” “I hope so,” I sighed. “I need to change something in my life. Start fresh. A completely new page. With no shadow of the past.” “Excellent idea!” Astrid supported. “You know what you need right now? A grand shopping spree. A bold new haircut! And maybe a new man. Someone worthy of you. Someone who truly loves you!” I smiled. A genuine smile. For the first time in days. Feeling a glimmer of hope. “Thanks, Astrid. You always know how to cheer me up. But as for a new man. Not yet. I need to sort myself out first. Heal my heart. And find myself again.”
That very evening. I called a real estate agent. Arranged to sell the penthouse apartment. I no longer wanted to stay. In a place that reminded me. Of a failed marriage. Of betrayal. And pain. I needed a new life. A completely new beginning. Free from the past. With no memories of Lysander. A few weeks later. I signed the sales documents. The huge sum of money. Transferred to my account. I felt a surge of confidence. A sense of power. And independence. Complete self-reliance. I was completely financially independent. I had a challenging. Meaningful job. Wonderful friends. Always there for me. And a clear understanding. Of what I wanted from life. Of the path I would take. Soon after. I found a new apartment. A spacious. Cozy three-bedroom apartment. Modern design. Still felt warm. In a quieter residential complex. Brooklyn Heights. Not far from my office. The large windows. Offered a beautiful view. Brooklyn Bridge. Manhattan skyline. A hopeful scene. The apartment. Filled with light. And air. I immediately felt at home there. A true home. Of my own. Where I could start anew.
Meanwhile, Lysander. Sitting in his small kitchen. In Queens. Sipping cheap beer. His eyes. Lifeless. Staring into space. Like a defeated man. His mother, Evangeline. Paced around him. Wailing. Complaining. About the unfairness of life. About “that wicked woman.” Who stole her son’s future. “A great artist misunderstood.” “Don’t you see, my precious Julian? You can’t trust these women; they only want money! They’ll drain you dry and then discard you! Mother told you so!” “Mother, that’s enough!” Lysander snapped. His voice. Hoarse. From beer. And frustration. He didn’t want to hear any more. “It’s my fault! I was wrong! I was too foolish!” “What are you talking about?” Evangeline retorted. Indignantly. She would never accept the truth. Never accept her son was a failure. “She tricked you, bewitched you! You’re so talented, so wonderful! She’s a destroyer! She ruined your life!” Lysander remained silent. He knew his mother. Would never admit his mistakes. For her. It was always easier. To blame others. Than to admit. Her son was a failure. A parasite. A useless man.
He went on Instagram. Began to write an angry. Lengthy. Venomous post. About how he’d trusted his treacherous wife. Offered to put all property in her name. And she’d abandoned him. With nothing. Ruining his artistic career. Leaving him penniless. He expected sympathy. Support from followers. Words of comfort. But instead. He received only ridicule. Harsh criticism. Comments full of contempt. “What did you do for your family yourself?” his commentators asked him. “Did you invest even a penny in that apartment? You should have worked instead of living off your wife, you parasite! Serves you right!” Julian angrily slammed his laptop shut. Feeling publicly humiliated. Abandoned by the whole world. Even his “artist” friends. He’d shared his story with. Didn’t express support. They merely shrugged. Advised him to be smarter next time. Or simply. Stop complaining. Start working. Start earning a living.
That evening. Lysander. Tossed and turned. For a long time. Unable to sleep. He turned over. In his old bed. Listening to his mother’s snores. In the next room. The regular sound. A reminder. Of his dependence. He felt humiliated. Insulted. And abandoned. A profound sense of loneliness. Lysander dreamed of taking revenge. On Seraphina. Proving to her. She was wrong. He was worth something. He would become a great artist. A successful man. But he knew. These were just empty dreams. Illusions. In his drunken haze. Self-deceiving words. He had lost. Lost miserably. No way back.
Several months later. I stood by the window. Of my new apartment. Admiring the panorama. Of the night city. The lights. Twinkling like stars. Fallen to Earth. A scene. Full of peace. And hope. I felt free. Independent. More at peace. Than ever before. I had gone through. The most difficult period. Of my life. A great storm. But I had overcome it. And I had only grown stronger. More resilient. Wiser. I knew. Much new. Interesting. Awaited me. A bright future. Created by myself. In the distance. Beyond the dark silhouettes. Of the sparkling high-rise buildings. I could see. The old public housing estate. Where Lysander lived. With his mother. It looked like. A small. Insignificant dot. In the vast city. A stark contrast. To my life. A reminder. Of the path I had chosen. I sighed. I felt a little sorry. For Lysander. A fleeting pity. For someone. Who had destroyed his own life. With greed. And deceit. But I understood. Everyone is the architect. Of their own happiness. Responsible. For their own choices. And I had made my choice. I chose freedom. Independence. Self-confidence. And a future. Determined by myself. Dependent on no one. And I regretted nothing.