My Husband Stole Our Savings To Buy His 24-Year-Old Assistant My Dream Car — So I Destroyed His Entire Life
Part 1
The doctor’s office smelled of stale coffee and antiseptic.
Dr.
Evans adjusted his glasses, his eyes filled with pity.
“Terminal stomach cancer,” he murmured over his clipboard.
“You might have three months left, Brenda.
Maybe less.”
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t scream or beg for some experimental treatment.
I just nodded slowly and walked out into the biting winter air.
The drive home felt like a blur of gray streets and flashing traffic lights.
I thought about my life, realizing I had spent the last decade serving everyone but myself.
I had given up my career as a promising young chef to manage a massive household.
Eight years.
I had given eight years to the Jenkins family, putting my own culinary dreams on hold to be the perfect housewife.
I did their laundry, cooked their gourmet meals, and managed their social calendars without a single word of thanks.
I unlocked the front door to the sound of laughter echoing from the living room.
My husband, Craig, lounged on the sofa with a glass of scotch.
His mother, Helen, sat in the armchair with her nose turned up at the television.
Beside Craig sat Heather, his so-called ‘childhood sweetheart’ who seemed to practically live with us.
My six-year-old son, Danny, was sitting on Heather’s lap.
He giggled as she fed him a piece of candy.
“Auntie Heather is going to be my new mommy,” Danny announced cheerfully.
The words felt like a physical blow to my already failing stomach.
I looked at Craig, expecting him to correct our son.
He just chuckled and took another sip of his drink.
“You really need to keep Danny happier,” Helen snapped without looking away from the screen.
“You couldn’t even make his favorite snack right today, you lazy cook.”
I clenched my fists at my sides.
If I hadn’t gotten pregnant with Danny, Helen would never have allowed a ‘lowly chef’ like me into their wealthy family.
She reminded me of my supposedly inferior status every chance she got.
Heather smiled that sickly-sweet influencer smile of hers.
“Craig just loves my cooking so much more,” she purred softly, trailing a hand over my husband’s shoulder.
I realized in that moment that my life was a cruel joke.
I was dying, and the people I had sacrificed everything for wouldn’t shed a single tear.
They were just waiting for me to get out of the way.
I marched upstairs and pulled my largest suitcase from the closet.
My hands didn’t shake as I folded my sweaters and tossed in my favorite shoes.
I walked back down the stairs and tossed my wedding ring onto the coffee table.
The heavy gold band hit the glass with a sharp clink, silencing the room.
Craig finally looked up, his brow furrowing in confusion.
“What kind of tantrum is this, Brenda?”
“I’m leaving,” I stated firmly, adjusting my grip on the suitcase handle.
“You want Heather so bad, you can have her.”
Helen let out a dramatic gasp, clutching her pearls.
“If you walk out that door, don’t even think about coming back for a dime of our money!”
I smiled grimly.
I didn’t need their permission anymore, and I certainly didn’t care about their inheritance.
I booked the penthouse suite at the most expensive hotel in the city.
I ordered room service, and ate every decadent dessert on the menu.
The rich flavors tasted like absolute freedom.
The next morning, I went straight to the bank and withdrew half of our joint savings.
If I only had three months, I was going to live them on my own terms.
I bought designer clothes, a flashy sports car, and invested heavily in an independent film project I had always admired.
My phone buzzed constantly with furious texts and missed calls from Craig.
He tracked me down to the hotel lobby by the end of the week.
His face was flushed with anger as he grabbed my arm in front of the concierge.
“You spent half a million dollars in two days, Brenda!”
He glared at me like I was a stranger.
I yanked my arm away, straightening my new silk jacket.
“I want a divorce, Craig.”
He froze, clearly not expecting me to push back.
“We’re not getting a divorce, you’re just being hysterical.”
I turned my back on him and walked toward the elevators.
“Watch me,” I threw over my shoulder.
I had one dream left before my time ran out completely.
I wanted to win the Global Young Chef Academy Award.
I had put that ambition aside to raise Danny, but now nothing was holding me back.
I secured a spot in the competition under my maiden name.
The kitchen became my sanctuary, the only place where I had total control over the chaos in my body.
Word must have gotten around the culinary circles about my entry.
Heather entered the exact same competition, clearly desperate to prove she was better than me in every possible way.
She had spent years building her online following with fake recipes and stolen ideas.
Now she wanted to crush me in front of the entire industry.
The day of the competition arrived with a flurry of bright lights and sharp knives.
My hands moved with practiced precision over my station, ignoring the dull ache in my abdomen.
I prepared a complex, Asian-fusion dish featuring a delicate cilantro lime sauce.
It was the recipe I had perfected during my lonely years in the Jenkins household.
The judges walked down the line, their faces stern and unreadable.
They stopped at Heather’s station first.
She presented her plate with a flourishing bow.
I caught a glimpse of her dish and my blood ran cold.
It was an exact replica of my own creation.
She must have bribed someone on the production crew to get a look at my prep notes.
Heather smiled as the judges tasted the dish she stole from me, waiting to claim my dream as her own.
