For our 10th anniversary, Carl threw a lavish party. To everyone else, it was a celebration of love. For me, it was a stage for humiliation. His sister Anita flaunted a gold bracelet he gave her, teasing about what my gift would be.
Then Carl handed me a large box. Inside? A mop. Laughter erupted. “Just a joke,” he claimed—but I saw the truth in his eyes. This was how he saw me: the maid.
Something inside me snapped. I marched outside and shattered the windshield of his beloved car with that mop. The room went silent. “Happy anniversary,” I said, tossing it at his feet.
Later, karma struck harder—a planter mysteriously crushed his car, and Anita was screaming on the phone about frozen accounts. Then I learned Carl had been planning to serve me divorce papers.
But what he didn’t know? The house was in my name. I also owned 51% of the company. The man who thought I was powerless had handed me everything.
I packed his things and showed him the door. Just as the FBI showed up—to investigate Anita for fraud. I smiled. “I’ll cooperate fully,” I said, “as majority shareholder.”
That night, glass of wine in hand, I finally breathed. I didn’t lift a finger. Karma handled it all. And the mop? Still in the corner—a symbol of how quickly everything changed.
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