I was still reeling from inheriting my great-aunt Lila’s estate when my husband, Nathan, handed me divorce papers. Not just divorce—he was suing for half of everything, including the estate. The timing was deliberate. He’d waited until I legally accepted the inheritance.
The estate was magnificent—three stories of limestone and ivy, fireplaces, sweeping staircases—straight out of a fairy tale. I was stunned, heart racing, and Nathan wasted no time dropping the bomb.
Weeks later, in court, he smirked like he’d won. The judge offered to settle: he could take the estate if I kept the house, rental property, and my investments. Nathan eagerly agreed.
Then I laughed. Calmly, I pulled up the inspection reports and photos I’d received from Aunt Lila’s lawyer. Black mold streaked the ceilings, beams were rotting, the property was a protected historical site—uninsurable, unsellable, and a nightmare to repair.
Nathan’s face fell. “You tricked me!” he stammered.
“I gave you exactly what you wanted,” I said. “Enjoy your new legacy.”
I walked out of the courtroom with a smile. He’d thought he’d won, but in reality, I had the last laugh.