**Diary Entry**
*Saturday Morning*
A knock at the door. I wasn’t expecting anyone. I opened it to find a stranger—tall, striking, with dark hair and a leather jacket that looked expensive. Her nails were manicured to perfection, her makeup bold. Confidence rolled off her like perfume.
“Are you Evelyn? Mark’s wife?”
“Yes… and you are?”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is why I’m here. Pack your things and leave. Mark and I are in love. He’s moving in with me. It’s his decision.”
I stared, dumbfounded. My husband—the man who’d sat across from me at dinner last night, borrowing money for another one of his “can’t-miss” ventures, kissing me goodnight and calling me perfect—had apparently made other plans.
“Come in,” I said, my voice hollow. “Let’s talk.”
My world tilted, then righted itself in an instant. Painful? Yes. But also clarifying.
“I’m Chloe,” she announced, stepping inside like she owned the place. “And I’m not here to negotiate. I’m here to take what’s mine.”
I walked to the kitchen, strangely calm. For the first time in five years of marriage, everything made sense. *How did I miss it?* No. Maybe I didn’t miss it. Maybe I just chose to see what I wanted through rose-tinted glasses. But glass shatters—and when it does, the shards cut deep.
Memories flashed—me, a successful estate agent with my own flat. Mark, charmingly dishevelled over a latte, spinning dreams of business empires. “Just a rough patch,” he’d say. “Wait and see—I’ll make it big.”
Flowers—cheap but daily—swept me off my feet. A proposal after three months. Then, the first loan: “Darling, lend me five grand? Temporary cash flow issue.” And another. And another. I believed. Worked myself ragged. All while he was whispering the same promises to someone else.
Silence filled the kitchen.
“Nice layout,” Chloe remarked, eyeing it like she’d redecorate tomorrow. “Mark said he picked it. He’s got great taste.”
“Wait here.” I fetched a leather folder from the hall. “You’ll want to see this. The deed—dated three years before I even met Mark. Notice the name.”
Her confidence flickered.
“But he told me… he owned a property firm…”
I opened my laptop, logged into my banking app. “This is my salary. I’m a senior agent.” Six-figure deposits glared back at her. Chloe sank onto a chair.
“Let me guess—he borrowed from you, too? Big investments, huge returns?”
“Twenty grand,” she whispered. “He swore it’d double by next month…”
“Exactly as planned!” Mark’s voice rang from the doorway. “Returns incoming—just be patient!”
He strolled in, wearing that cashmere jumper I’d bought him.
“Mark?” Chloe shot up. “You were supposed to be meeting investors!”
“He asked me for money last night,” I said. “Turns out, *I* was the investor.”
He froze, eyes darting between us. Then—the smile. That same, smooth grin.
“Ladies, let me explain. Chloe, your money’s safe—”
“*Where?*” She advanced on him. “I sold my car for this! Where is it?”
“It’s secured!” His voice cracked. “Another month—”
“How many others?” I stood slowly. “How many women are funding your ‘projects’?”
He stammered—something about Chloe being “strictly business.”
“Business?” She laughed bitterly. “The dates? The ‘I-love-yous’? You swore you couldn’t live without me!”
Pressed, he cracked. “There was… an opportunity online. Foolproof, really—”
“You *gambled* it?” Chloe clutched her head. “You blew my savings on *bets*?”
“Not all of it! I’ve got a system—”
“Ah yes,” I said. “Borrow from the wife to pay the mistress? Or vice versa?”
Chloe grabbed her bag. “I’m done. The police will handle you.”
The door slammed. Mark turned to me, desperate.
“Evelyn, please—I messed up, but I *love* you—”
“The worst part? You believe your own lies.”
“I’ll change! One more chance—”
“You’ll sleep on the sofa. Tomorrow, you’ll leave.”
“*Where do I go?*”
“Not my problem. Try your ‘system.’”
**Next Morning**
He crept into the kitchen, contrite. “I’ve seen the light. I’ll get a job, repay—”
“I’m filing for divorce.”
His face paled. “You can’t—where will I—”
“Where were you going when you promised Chloe forever? Pack. Then go.”
“I *can* change—”
“No,” I said, calm and final. “No more chances. No more lies.”
**That Evening**
A knock at Chloe’s door. Through the peephole—Mark, suitcases in tow.
“Let me in, love! Evelyn kicked me out… Now we can be together!”
He rambled about investments, begged for “just a little more” cash.
She leaned into the door.
“Piss off. And if you come back, I’ll have you arrested.”
Silence. Then, the shuffle of feet. The lift dinged.
Outside, Mark trudged through the night, dragging suitcases bought with other people’s money—already scheming his next “sure thing.”
And in two separate flats, two women sat in the quiet, picking through the wreckage of lies they’d *wanted* to believe. Because the most dangerous con? The one you play on yourself.
