Every morning, I made his breakfast—coffee, omelet, toast cut just right.

But lately, all he gave me was silence.

No eye contact. No warmth. Just a screen in his hand and one-word answers.

Then I saw the name: Carol. Smiling on his phone screen.

“A colleague,” he said. “Out of town meeting till Monday.” But something in me knew better.

That same day at work, a new client came to rent one of my short-term units.

Her name? Carol. Same red hair. Same smile. She said it was for a romantic weekend with her boyfriend.

I smiled. Handed her the keys. And kept the spare,

By evening, I called the number listed as her emergency contact.

Her husband answered.

Later, we stood outside the apartment together.

I opened the door. Inside, candlelight. Laughter. Skin. Two people caught mid-betrayal.

I looked my husband in the eye. “Remember the prenup clause?

The one where the cheater pays?” I walked out.

Two weeks later, the house is mine.

I painted the living room yellow. I cook for myself now—extra cheese, extra paprika.

And I keep the spare key—not for him, but for me.

To remind myself: when something feels wrong,

I don’t wait. I open the door. I walk through it.