**Diary Entry**
*Saturday Morning*
The knock at the door startled me. I tightened my bathrobe and opened it to find a stranger standing in the hallway—tall, striking, with a confident air that felt more like an intrusion than an introduction.
“Are you Evelyn? Slade’s wife?” Her voice was sharp, like the click of designer heels.
“Yes… Who are you?” I kept my tone level, but something in her gaze made my stomach twist.
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is *why* I’m here. Pack your things and leave. Slade and I are in love. He’s moving in with me. His decision.”
I stared, my thoughts scattering like dropped coins. Slade? The same man who’d sat at our kitchen table last night, spinning another tale about an investment opportunity while kissing me goodnight, murmuring how lucky he was?
“Come in,” I heard myself say, the words strange on my tongue. “Let’s talk.”
My world had just shattered, but oddly, my mind had never been clearer.
“I’m Lillian,” she announced, stepping inside as if she owned the place. Her leather jacket, manicured nails—all carefully curated to impress. “And I’m not here to negotiate. I’m here to take what’s mine.”
I walked to the kitchen, my fingers tracing the countertop. Five years of marriage, and only now did I see the truth. Had I been blind? Or had I just *wanted* to believe in him—in us? The illusion had been so pretty, but illusions don’t break cleanly.
Memory flickered: me, a successful estate agent with my own flat. Him, charmingly disheveled, nursing a latte in that café near Russell Square. A battered briefcase, a cheap suit, but grand promises: *“It’s just a rough patch. Wait and see—I’ll make it!”*
Then came the whirlwind romance. Flowers (cheap, but daily). Moonlit walks. A proposal after three months. And right after the wedding, the first ask: *“Love, can you lend me two grand? Just a quick investment—this is our chance!”* I handed it over. Again and again. While I worked, he spun dreams—with *her*?
The kitchen was silent.
“Nice layout,” Lillian mused, running a hand over the marble. “Slade said he picked this place himself. He’s got brilliant taste.”
“Wait here.” I fetched a leather folder from the study—deeds, contracts—and dropped it on the table. “Look at the date. Three years before I met Slade. And the owner’s name.”
Her confidence wavered. “But he told me… he had his own estate firm…”
I opened my laptop, logged into my banking app. The screen glowed with steady, substantial deposits.
Lillian sank into a chair. “He *took* money from you too, didn’t he? Those ‘can’t-lose’ schemes?”
“Nearly fifty grand,” she whispered. “He swore I’d see returns in a month…”
“And you *will*!” Slade’s voice rang from the doorway. He strode in, dressed in the cashmere jumper *I’d* bought him. “Lily! I thought you had that investor meeting?”
“He asked me for money yesterday,” I said coolly. “Turns out, *I* was the investor.”
Slade froze, eyes darting between us. Then—the grin. The bloody, infuriating *grin*. “Listen, girls, let me explain. Lily, your money’s safe—”
“*Where*?” Lillian lunged at him. “I sold my car, *borrowed* from my parents! Where is it?”
“It’s—I’ve got it handled! Another few weeks—”
“How many others?” I stood slowly. “How many women are funding your ‘projects’?”
His lips moved soundlessly before the confession tumbled out: *“There was this online trading scheme… practically foolproof…”*
“You *gambled* it?” Lillian’s voice cracked. “You blew my life savings on *bets*?”
“Not all of it! I’ve got a *system*—”
I laughed. “Your system—borrow from your wife to pay your mistress? Or the other way around?”
Lillian grabbed her bag. “I’m done. I’m reporting you to the police.” The door slammed behind her.
Slade turned to me, pleading. “Evelyn, please… It’s just the money—I got in over my head. I *love* you.”
“The worst part? You actually *believe* your own lies.”
“I’ll change! One more chance!”
“Sleep on the sofa. You’re gone by morning.”
“But where will I *go*?”
I shrugged. “Not my problem. You’ve got a *system*, haven’t you?”
*Next Morning*
He crept into the kitchen at dawn. “Evie… I’ve seen the light. I’ll get a job, pay everyone back—”
“I’m filing for divorce.”
He blanched. “You can’t—where will I *live*?”
“Where were you planning to live when you promised to marry Lillian? Pack your bags, Slade. *Leave.*”
That evening, Lillian’s buzzer rang. Through the peephole, she saw Slade—suitcases in tow.
“Lily, let me in! Evelyn kicked me out… Now we can be together!”
She leaned against the door. “Piss off. And don’t come back. I’ve already reported you.”
Somewhere below, the building door thudded shut. Slade wandered the darkened streets, dragging suitcases bought with other people’s money—already hatching his next scheme, his next *believer*.
And in two separate flats, two women sat in the quiet, picking through the wreckage of beautiful lies they’d *wanted* to believe. The cruelest deception isn’t the one told—it’s the one you *choose*.
