I used to believe Collins was my forever. The kind of man who remembered my favorite tea, who stayed up all night when my cat was sick. After a year of what I thought was love, he proposed, and I moved into the house he shared with his mother, Jenna.
That’s when the mask slipped.
The sweet gestures vanished, replaced by chore charts pinned to the fridge. I became their live-in maid—unpaid, unthanked. Collins stopped lifting a finger, and Jenna watched with a smirk as I scrubbed their floors. I told myself it was temporary. It wasn’t.
Then I tore a ligament at work. The doctor ordered six weeks of rest.
Collins promised to take care of me. That first day, he and Jenna carried me upstairs, fluffed my pillows, handed me water… then *locked the bedroom door from the outside.*
My breath froze. A rustling sound—then a paper slid under the door.
It was a **"Home Contribution Agreement."**
According to their contract, I’d repay their "kindness" by cooking, cleaning, and covering rent once I recovered. Their signatures were already inked at the bottom. A pen lay beside it, waiting for mine.
But they’d forgotten one thing.
Months earlier, I’d hidden a spare key behind the headboard—just in case. Hands shaking, I unlocked the door, grabbed my phone, and called my sister.
The police arrived to Collins’ sputtering protests. I showed them the contract, my medical paperwork. Jenna tried to spin it as *"family teamwork,"* but the officers weren’t fooled. That night, I walked out and never looked back.
A week later, I filed for divorce.
Collins fought it, but my brother-in-law (a lawyer) dismantled him in court. He lost the case, then his job. Jenna got evicted when I exposed their scheme to the landlord.
Months later, I bumped into Collins at the pharmacy. Gaunt, unshaven, he hissed, *"You ruined my life."*
I smiled. **"No. I just stopped letting you ruin mine."**
