I came home from chemo, weak but hopeful, only to find Leo — my husband of five years — kissing another woman on our couch. When I gasped his name, he didn’t even flinch. He smirked, called me a burden, and gave me one hour to leave “with nothing.”
I packed in silence, rage simmering beneath my tears. What Leo didn’t know was that I’d installed hidden cameras years ago after a burglary scare. That night, from a small hotel room, I watched hours of footage: him and his mistress mocking my cancer, plotting to take the house and money once I was “gone.”
My fury turned into action. I clipped the worst part and posted it online, tagging my lawyer. By morning, the video had gone viral. Strangers called me a queen, my sister cried, and my lawyer confirmed the prenup: infidelity during illness voided his claim. The house, the accounts—everything—was mine.
Twenty-four hours after tossing me out, Leo was kneeling in a hotel lobby, begging. Cameras flashed as I walked away. He had wanted me to leave with nothing—karma made sure he did.
