My Cheating Husband's Fake Cancer Became a Real Death Sentence

My college classmate, Dewey Watson, had become a lawyer.

When the call connected, I could hear my own voice trembling.

"Hello? Is this Mr. Watson? This is Madeline Shaw. I'd like to ask if a husband cheats during marriage, fabricates debts, and conspires with a third party to defraud his wife, how many years could he face?

"Also, if he used eight years of his wife's income to repay fake debts without her knowledge, can that money be recovered?"

There was a brief silence on the other end.

"With sufficient evidence, you can recover the funds," Dewey said. "But you'll need complete transfer records, chat logs, and proof that the debt was fabricated. If the amount is large, it could constitute fraud."

After hanging up, I screenshotted every comment from the post and went to a notary's office to preserve the digital evidence.

Then, I organized eight years of bank statements.

Every month, the first thing I did after getting paid was transfer money to Henry for his debts.

Sometimes it would be eight thousand, other times it was 20 thousand.

My account balance never once exceeded three thousand.

After receiving everything, Dewey replied, "We can file a case. But you need to be prepared. This will take time."

"I've endured it for eight years. I can endure it a little longer," I responded.

…

At 7:00 pm that evening, I changed out of my cleaning uniform and put on the only decent coat I owned.

I bought it five years ago. The cuffs were already frayed.

I took a cab to the luxury hotel.

Standing outside Room 1001, I took a deep breath.

Then, I knocked.

Inside, Henry's impatient voice came from inside. "Who is it? Didn't I say no room service?"

I didn't answer and kept knocking.

The door opened.

Henry stood there in a white bathrobe. His hair was still damp. When he saw me, he froze.

"Madeline?" he said, his voice cracking. "What are you doing here?"

I brushed past him and entered the suite.

My heart was numb, but my eyes took in the room.

The suite was large. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed a glittering river view. Rose petals were scattered across the bed. The air smelled of perfume and champagne.

On the table was a bottle of champagne that I recognized from the supermarket. It was priced at 3800 dollars.

Next to it was half a box of caviar. One bite of that would cost me three days of cleaning windows.

Sylvia walked out of the bathroom wearing a silk slip. When she saw me, she shrieked and grabbed a robe to cover herself.

"Babe! Why is she here?"

I ignored her and walked to the window. I stared at my reflection in the glass.

My hair was tied in a plain ponytail. I had no makeup on. Under my coat were faded jeans.

Reflected in the glass beside me was Sylvia's radiant and youthful face. A gleaming diamond necklace hung around her neck.

I recognized the brand. Last month, Henry said it was a gift from a client. I believed him.

"If I hadn't come here, I wouldn't have known you're keeping a mistress," I said, turning toward him.

Henry's expression darkened. "Madeline! Watch your mouth!"

I laughed.

"Henry, do you really think you deserve respect? Have you ever respected me? Have you ever cared about the eight years I spent earning money for you?"

Sylvia sneered from the sidelines. "Lady, you're the third wheel since Henry doesn't love you. Henry and I grew up together. You're the one who forced your way in.

"Look at yourself. You're old, worn out, and you smell like disinfectant. You're embarrassing to take out in public."

I walked up to her and looked at her youthful face.

"Sylvia, you're 25, right?"

She raised an eyebrow. "What, jealous?"

I shook my head.

"No, I'm just thinking. When you reach my age, there'll be a younger woman who will spend your money and sleep with the man you love. When that happens, you'll become exactly what you just called me.

"Meanwhile, your boyfriend will have his arm around another 25-year-old as he says that all you're good for is spreading your legs."