My Mistress Faked Her Pregnancy While My Wife Secretly Sold Our Mansion—Now I Have Nothing

Part 1

I blew gently on the premium caviar before spoon-feeding it to Brenda.

She rubbed her supposedly pregnant belly and leaned into my embrace with a practiced pout.

I placed a hand on her stomach, shifting my voice into a gentle tone I never used at home.

I coaxed her to take just one more bite for our unborn son.

Brenda whined about being full, swallowing the expensive treat with a delicate sigh.

She pointed out I had been with her for three hours, asking if my wife would be angry.

A scoff escaped my lips.

I assured her my wife had absolutely nothing to be angry about.

I provided the fifteen-million-dollar mansion, the luxury cars, and the endless stream of money.

My jaw tightened at the thought of Megan daring to utter a single word of complaint.

I boasted that I would kick her out onto the streets if she ever tried.

Brenda’s mouth twitched upward before she pulled her features into a mask of pity.

She begged me not to speak about my wife that way, feigning sympathy for the lonely woman.

A cold laugh rumbled in my chest.

I checked my Rolex, stood up, and promised to visit her again the following day.

Brenda nodded obediently, walking me to the door with a sweet smile.

I stepped into the hallway, completely unaware that her innocent look vanished the second the door clicked shut.

My veteran driver, Greg, watched me cautiously through the rearview mirror of my Maybach.

He asked if we were heading back to the estate.

I gave a dismissive hum of agreement, leaning back against the leather seat.

My eyes fluttered shut as my mind calculated which private clinic to book for Brenda’s ultrasound.

I failed to notice Greg’s hands trembling slightly on the steering wheel.

An hour later, the car rolled to a stop at my sprawling estate.

I stepped out, walking along the pebble-paved driveway toward the massive front door.

My key slid into the lock, but the mechanism refused to turn.

I frowned, applying more force and twisting violently.

The heavy wood remained stubbornly sealed.

A curse slipped from my lips.

I banged my fist against the door, shouting for Megan to open it immediately.

Silence answered me.

I yelled for my four-year-old son, Tyler, to come let his dad inside.

The California wind rustled through the palm trees, offering the only response.

Anger flared hot in my chest.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Megan’s number.

A cold, automated voice informed me the subscriber’s phone was powered off.

I gritted my teeth and called Tyler’s smartwatch, only to hear the same dead tone.

My neighbor, Mrs. Smith, walked past the property line clutching a bag of groceries.

She stopped in her tracks, staring at me as if I were a ghost.

She asked why I was still lingering around the property.

I snapped my head toward her, demanding to know what she meant by that.

I asserted loudly that this was my house.

Mrs. Smith recoiled, her eyes widening in surprise.

She pointed out that my family had already moved out days ago.

She mentioned seeing a real estate agent bringing people over for viewings at a bargain price.

A high-pitched ringing noise echoed in my ears.

I demanded to know exactly who had authorized the sale.

Mrs. Smith took another step back, intimidated by my fierce expression.

She stated she had seen my wife sign the listing agreement with her own eyes.

My hand shook around the smooth metal of my phone.

I asked when this impossible transaction had taken place.

Mrs. Smith recalled seeing Megan walk out three days ago, pulling two large suitcases and holding Tyler’s hand.

A bucket of ice water seemed to wash over my entire body.

I dialed my executive assistant, Dan, my heart pounding violently against my ribs.

He picked up after the sixth ring.

I barked an order to find out exactly where my wife had gone.

Dead silence stretched across the line.

I roared at him to speak.

Dan’s voice shook, sounding as if he had just finished crying.

He stammered out that Megan had hired an agency to sell the mansion for fifteen million in cash.

I yelled that such a thing was impossible because I held the property deed.

Dan took a deep breath, reminding me the house had been placed entirely in her name to avoid taxes.

My vision darkened around the edges.

I demanded to know where she had taken my son.

Dan revealed she had boarded an international flight to Zurich three days prior.

I nearly dropped my phone, screaming about how she afforded tickets when I froze her credit cards.

He explained she had liquidated founder shares from a tech startup tied to her late mother’s trust.

My wife now held more liquid cash than I ever did in my entire life.

I slumped against the heavy wooden doorframe, my legs refusing to support my weight.

Dan delivered the final, devastating blow.

Megan had swiped my unlimited supplementary black card to buy a half-million-dollar watch at the airport.

My primary account was completely drained.

Mr. Jenkins, the homeowners association manager, walked up the driveway holding a Manila envelope.

He handed me the documents, confirming the new owner had revoked my access to the property.

I stared at the pristine copy of the new property deed in my trembling hands.

Megan Hayes was listed as the sole managing member of the corporate entity that now owned my home.

I burst into choked, harsh laughter.

My phone chimed with a sweet voice note from Brenda asking me to bring her croissants.

I couldn’t even press play.

I had lost absolutely everything, and I never even saw it coming.