The Penthouse Wife's Ultimate Revenge

One week before my wedding, I walked into the master bedroom of my fully-paid penthouse apartment and caught my fiancé cheating with my best friend.

They were laughing about his fake "insomnia"—the lie he'd used to trick me into sleeping in the guest room so they could have the master bedroom to themselves.

Gage was a top surgeon, and I'd sacrificed almost everything to care for his supposedly fragile health. I'd even brewed essential oils from my late mother's precious collection to steady his hands.

But behind my back, they were planning to pretend to marry me, then slowly push me out and take over my home.

When I confronted them, they didn't show a single ounce of guilt.

Gage deliberately destroyed the essential oil my late mother had left me, then violently shoved me against the wall and locked me in the room to suffer the pain and bleeding alone.

I had poured everything into building a safe harbor for this man, and in his eyes, I was nothing but a convenient stepping stone.

I didn't even bother shedding a single tear.

I took out my phone, canceled our honeymoon trip, and listed the penthouse on the market—cash sale, 24 hours.

Time to take out the trash.