Nancy had always believed in the values of love, loyalty, and fairness in a marriage. She thought that if you worked hard and kept things balanced, life would reward you. For two years, she gave her husband, Jeremy, half the rent every month, trusting him completely.
But when she uncovered the truth—that he and his mother had been swindling her out of thousands—Nancy knew it was time to teach them both a lesson they would never forget.
They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but they’ve never met a woman who’s been deceived by her own husband and his mother for two straight years.
I was the kind of person who believed in justice—working hard, playing fair, and expecting the same in return. But sometimes life throws you a curveball so twisted, it’s meant to shatter your heart and light a fire of rage within you. And that’s when you tap into your inner vengeful goddess.
At first, everything seemed perfect. Jeremy and I had built our life together, married young, and split everything equally. Rent, groceries, bills—everything. We’d agreed on a 50-50 split. No issues.
Jeremy was the one who found the apartment, and I remember how excited he sounded when he called me at work.
“Baby, you’ve got to see this place,” his voice bubbling with excitement. “It’s perfect for us.”
“Perfect how?” I smiled, sensing his enthusiasm.
“Two bedrooms, modern kitchen, and a balcony you’ll love. And it’s only $2,000 a month. Not bad for the area.”
Later that day, we toured the apartment. Jeremy practically bounced around, pointing out every feature like a kid showing off a new toy.
“We’ll split it, $1,000 each, just like we planned,” he said, wrapping his arms around me from behind as we stood on the balcony. “Our first real home together.”
I kissed him softly. “Sounds perfect.”
It all seemed legitimate—the lease, the payments, even the so-called landlord. I had no reason to question anything. Not a single red flag.
Then came the night that changed everything.
I had just finished a long 12-hour shift at the hospital when I stepped into the elevator, my feet aching in my heels. The elevator suddenly stopped at the fifth floor, and my neighbor Taylor, a bubbly 20-something, hopped in. I barely had the energy to smile.
“Hey!” she chirped, then tilted her head. “Oh, I know you! You live in Lorrie and Jeremy’s apartment, right?”
The words hit me like a slap to the face. “Lorrie?”
“Yeah, Jeremy’s mom. She and her son bought that place years ago when the building first opened. Such a smart investment, you know! She was always talking about it at the building meetings.”
I blinked, trying to process what she was saying. “Building meetings?”
“Oh yes! She never missed one. Always going on about how they made a killing when the previous tenants moved out. Then Jeremy moved in with his ex… though that didn’t last long. And now you!”
I felt the floor drop beneath me. “His ex lived here too?”
Taylor’s smile faltered. “Oh… oh no. You didn’t know? Lorrie always brags about how well the arrangement works, having family manage the property… She was on the building board and everything.”
My fingers tightened around the elevator rail, my pulse pounding in my ears. The pieces started falling into place. “Jeremy owns the apartment?”
“Yeah… He and his mom both own it.”
The elevator doors opened, but I couldn’t move. I was frozen, my world spinning.
“Nancy?” Taylor reached out and touched my arm gently. “You’ve gone completely white. I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.”
“No,” I whispered, my voice barely a breath. “But I’m certainly glad I do now.”
I walked down the hallway in a daze. All this time, I’d been paying rent to Jeremy, thinking we were renting from some faceless landlord. But there was no landlord. No rental agreement. Nothing but a lie.
My head was spinning as I staggered to our door. For two years, Jeremy and his mother had been taking my hard-earned money, splitting it between themselves. I felt sick, betrayed beyond belief.
That night, I dug into public real estate records, looking for answers. And there it was—property deeds in both Jeremy’s and his mother’s names. They’d owned the place for five years. They’d even taken out a mortgage together.
How had I been so blind?
Just then, my phone buzzed with a text from Jeremy: “Grabbing drinks with Mom. Don’t wait up. Love you!”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I clicked through my photo gallery, finding a picture from last Christmas—Jeremy and me sitting on his mom’s couch, his arm around me while she served her famous eggnog. They’d been stealing from me even then.
I dialed my best friend, Sarah. “They own it,” I said, voice trembling with anger. “The whole time, they owned it.”
“What? Who owns what?” she asked.
“Jeremy and his mom. They own the freaking apartment. And they’ve been charging me rent for it. For two years, Sarah. $24,000.”
“Oh my God! Really?” Sarah’s voice was filled with shock.
“Yeah, and I’m going to make them pay.”
The next few weeks were an act. A carefully crafted performance.
“Baby,” I called to Jeremy one evening, “your mom invited us for dinner on Sunday. Should I make that butterscotch pie she loves?”
Jeremy looked up from his phone, smiling. “You’re the best, you know that?”
“Oh, I know!” I grinned back, feeling a cold satisfaction spread through me.
That Sunday, I sat at his mother’s dining table, passing the mashed potatoes, laughing at their jokes like I didn’t know what they were really up to.
“Nancy, dear,” Lorrie beamed at me, “you seem extra cheerful today.”
“Oh, I just got some good news at work,” I said, forcing a smile. “I might even have enough saved for a down payment on a house soon.”
The way they exchanged glances almost made me want to laugh out loud. But I held it in, smiling sweetly.
“That’s wonderful, sweetie,” Jeremy said, squeezing my hand. “But maybe we should keep renting for now. The market’s not great for buying.”
I nodded, holding back my smirk. “Of course. Why rush into buying when we have such a great rental situation, right?”
My mother-in-law nearly choked on her coffee.
For the next two weeks, I played my role perfectly—laughing at Jeremy’s dumb jokes, sharing affectionate kisses, and handing him my $1,000 for rent, just like I did every month.
But behind the scenes, I was planning my revenge.
And then it was time.
December 28, “The Execution.”
Jeremy kissed me goodbye that morning, holding his mug of coffee, completely unaware of what was about to unfold.
“Love you, babe,” he said, heading for the door.
“Love you too, honey,” I smiled sweetly. “Oh, and Jeremy?”
He turned, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
“You really should’ve married an idiot.”
His face scrunched in confusion. “What?”
“Nothing,” I sang. “Have a great day at work!”
The second he was gone, I went to work. I packed everything I owned—my clothes, my shoes, even the coffee maker he loved. Then I went to the bank.
Our joint account was about to serve its final purpose. I emptied it. Every last cent. But I wasn’t done yet.
I’d already signed a lease for a new apartment. A small but cozy place across town. And I paid the first month’s rent—using Jeremy’s money.
Then came Step Three—The Grand Finale.
By the time Jeremy came home, the apartment was completely empty. The only thing left was a letter, taped to the window.
I could almost hear his breath catch in panic as he read:
Dear Jeremy,
Hope you enjoy YOUR apartment.
Since you and your mother had such fun scamming me for two years, I figured it was time to return the favor.
My new apartment’s rent for January is already paid — by you.
And don’t bother calling. I blocked you.
Happy New Year, loser.
—Nancy
I smiled as I imagined him freaking out.
Then I turned off my phone and drove straight to my new apartment.
Three months later, I sat in my new place, sipping champagne, staring at my newly signed divorce papers. Jeremy had agreed to everything: full repayment of every cent he stole, plus interest.
My phone buzzed with a text from Taylor: “Saw your ex today. He looked miserable. Lorrie’s selling her unit and moving to Florida. Building meetings won’t be the same without her drama!”
I grinned, raising my glass to my reflection. The view wasn’t as nice as my old place, but it felt so much sweeter.
Jeremy called me 27 times that night. I didn’t answer. His mother tried too. Blocked.
Then the texts from friends came in. Jeremy was losing it, ranting that I had “stolen HIS money.” The irony was so sweet.
Did I feel bad? Not at all.
Because for two years, they’d taken from me without a second thought. But now? I was the one laughing.
Ladies, if something feels off, trust your gut. And if a man tries to play you, make damn sure you play him harder. Because in the end, scammers always get what they deserve.
And that butterscotch pie? Totally worth every single “special ingredient.”
