To help my husband, Henry Carter, pay off a million-dollar debt, I clean windows and scrub toilets in an office building on Valentine's Day just for the triple pay.

After I'm done with the windows, I am about to transfer the last 50 thousand dollars of the debt when a post suddenly pops up on my phone.

The title of the post is, "What is something you see in real life that makes you feel sorry for someone, even if they are your enemy?"

One of the top comments says, "The person I hate the most is my boyfriend's wife. My boyfriend pretends to be poor to spend money on me and cheats his wife out of over a million. That woman works day and night at a cleaning company just to make money for me!

"This has gone on for eight years. That woman has been scrubbing toilets for eight years! Even if she is my enemy, I feel sorry for her."

I freeze, and my fingers tremble uncontrollably.

No way. It has to be a coincidence.

I stare at those words, stunned and unable to recover from the shock.

Then, a new comment appears, "Now, my boyfriend plans to fake an illness by telling his wife that he has cancer. He's going to trick her into giving him money to buy me a car."

At that exact moment, Henry sends me a message.

The instant I open it, I feel my heart skip a beat.

It reads, "I'm sorry, honey. I'm sick—I have cancer. The doctor says we need to prepare 80 thousand dollars for treatment. I hate myself for this. Why am I even alive? I'm just dragging you down with me."

The words "late-stage liver cancer" in the attached diagnosis report are painful to look at.

I think in dismay, "Henry, you do not need to pretend to be sick. You are indeed in the late stage of cancer."

The comments section exploded. "You and your boyfriend are a match made in heaven! You're just two shameless pieces of trash!"

Without hesitation, the user named Vivian blocked the commenter without hesitation and fired back with another post.

"Jealous much? My man's willing to play poor to fool his wife for me. That just shows how wanted I am. Someone like you couldn't get a man like him even if you begged for it!"

She continued to show off. "He just transferred 50 thousand to me! This is perfect for a trip to Malakor on Valentine's Day! Have you peasants ever touched the sand in Malakor?

"The dress I'm wearing is worth more than three months of that old hag scrubbing toilets. The gold Henry gave me two years ago is now worth 30 thousand more!" she boasted. "Those who love me thrive, while those who hate me stay broke!"

"Won't your boyfriend's wife lose it if she finds out the truth?" someone asked.

Vivian scoffed. "Lose it? She wouldn't. Henry's already terminally ill with cancer. What else can she do besides scrubbing the floors as a cleaner?"

The word cleaner stabbed at my heart.

I looked down at my hands. My knuckles were swollen and misshapen. The skin on the back of my hands looked like cracked, dried earth.

Eight years.

For over 2900 days and nights, I had spent the best years of my life paying off Henry Carter's startup debts.

I never took a day off or showed up late. Even with a 102-degree fever, I was still on my knees, cleaning toilets.

Cleaning chemicals had soaked into my fingers until they were wrinkled and raw. Calluses built up layer after layer on my knees. Years of bending over had wrecked my lower back.

Like an idiot, I even worked three jobs. I was a cashier during the day, a dishwasher at night, and a house cleaner on the weekends.

With less than five hours of sleep a day, I was so exhausted that I could fall asleep standing up.

I thought I was saving the man I loved, but it turned out that I was just footing the bill for someone else's romance.

A week ago, Henry was diagnosed with late-stage liver cancer.

The doctor pulled me aside and whispered, "He has at most one month left. Don't put him through treatment. Let him go peacefully."

I cried in the hospital hallway that night.

The next day, I spent 50 bucks getting someone to photoshop a fake clean bill of health just so he could enjoy what little time he had left without worry.

Yet all this time, he had been faking his illness to squeeze every last bit out of me.

My hands trembled as I opened Vivian's profile. Using the contact information she left behind, I added her on Twitter.

Her cover photo was a picture of a beach.

Henry had his arm around her waist. They were both smiling at the camera.

Behind them was clear blue water and a bright sky.

I kept scrolling until I reached her latest tweet.

"Anniversary with my beloved. Champagne, roses, and a sea-view suite. When you're with the right person, every day feels like Valentine's Day."

Sylvia Lynwood had posted a photo of a floor-to-ceiling window in Room 1001 of a luxury hotel. The river view outside glittered.

The location tag showed the time. It was posted at 10:00 pm last night.

Last night, Henry had texted me: "I'm working late. Going to crash at the office."

"Don't forget to take your stomach medicine," I replied, believing him.

I almost let out a laugh. A bitter feeling spread through my chest.

Stomach medicine?

What he needed were stamina pills to keep up with his mistress.

I opened my contacts and dialed a number I hadn't contacted in years.

My college classmate, Dewey Watson, had become a lawyer.

When the call connected, I could hear my own voice trembling.

"Hello? Is this Mr. Watson? This is Madeline Shaw. I'd like to ask if a husband cheats during marriage, fabricates debts, and conspires with a third party to defraud his wife, how many years could he face?

"Also, if he used eight years of his wife's income to repay fake debts without her knowledge, can that money be recovered?"

There was a brief silence on the other end.

"With sufficient evidence, you can recover the funds," Dewey said. "But you'll need complete transfer records, chat logs, and proof that the debt was fabricated. If the amount is large, it could constitute fraud."

After hanging up, I screenshotted every comment from the post and went to a notary's office to preserve the digital evidence.

Then, I organized eight years of bank statements.

Every month, the first thing I did after getting paid was transfer money to Henry for his debts.

Sometimes it would be eight thousand, other times it was 20 thousand.

My account balance never once exceeded three thousand.

After receiving everything, Dewey replied, "We can file a case. But you need to be prepared. This will take time."

"I've endured it for eight years. I can endure it a little longer," I responded.

…

At 7:00 pm that evening, I changed out of my cleaning uniform and put on the only decent coat I owned.

I bought it five years ago. The cuffs were already frayed.

I took a cab to the luxury hotel.

Standing outside Room 1001, I took a deep breath.

Then, I knocked.

Inside, Henry's impatient voice came from inside. "Who is it? Didn't I say no room service?"

I didn't answer and kept knocking.

The door opened.

Henry stood there in a white bathrobe. His hair was still damp. When he saw me, he froze.

"Madeline?" he said, his voice cracking. "What are you doing here?"

I brushed past him and entered the suite.

My heart was numb, but my eyes took in the room.

The suite was large. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed a glittering river view. Rose petals were scattered across the bed. The air smelled of perfume and champagne.

On the table was a bottle of champagne that I recognized from the supermarket. It was priced at 3800 dollars.

Next to it was half a box of caviar. One bite of that would cost me three days of cleaning windows.

Sylvia walked out of the bathroom wearing a silk slip. When she saw me, she shrieked and grabbed a robe to cover herself.

"Babe! Why is she here?"

I ignored her and walked to the window. I stared at my reflection in the glass.

My hair was tied in a plain ponytail. I had no makeup on. Under my coat were faded jeans.

Reflected in the glass beside me was Sylvia's radiant and youthful face. A gleaming diamond necklace hung around her neck.

I recognized the brand. Last month, Henry said it was a gift from a client. I believed him.

"If I hadn't come here, I wouldn't have known you're keeping a mistress," I said, turning toward him.

Henry's expression darkened. "Madeline! Watch your mouth!"

I laughed.

"Henry, do you really think you deserve respect? Have you ever respected me? Have you ever cared about the eight years I spent earning money for you?"

Sylvia sneered from the sidelines. "Lady, you're the third wheel since Henry doesn't love you. Henry and I grew up together. You're the one who forced your way in.

"Look at yourself. You're old, worn out, and you smell like disinfectant. You're embarrassing to take out in public."

I walked up to her and looked at her youthful face.

"Sylvia, you're 25, right?"

She raised an eyebrow. "What, jealous?"

I shook my head.

"No, I'm just thinking. When you reach my age, there'll be a younger woman who will spend your money and sleep with the man you love. When that happens, you'll become exactly what you just called me.

"Meanwhile, your boyfriend will have his arm around another 25-year-old as he says that all you're good for is spreading your legs."

Sylvia's face turned pale in an instant.

Henry immediately stepped in front of her and pointed at me. "Madeline, that's enough!"

I pulled out my phone, opened Sylvia's posts, and shoved it in his face.

"That's enough? I scrimped and saved every single day just to pay off your so-called debt. I stretched every cent like it was two. Yet the branded dress she's wearing in these photos is worth 23 thousand retail!" I screamed.

"The week before, you said you had a company outing. Turns out, you took her out for a full-course dinner. It costs you 300 dollars per person. Last week, you said you were meeting a client, when you actually took her to a concert. You spent eight thousand on two VIP tickets."

I held out my hands in front of him as my anger surged. "These hands have scrubbed over 30 thousand toilets and cleaned half a million square feet of glass just to earn that money, yet all of it went to this bitch!

"Henry, you can't even call yourself a human!" I spat.

Henry guiltily looked away. Sylvia, on the other hand, laughed.

"His spending your money just means that you're useful. What else are you good at besides earning money?" she began. "If he takes you out and people ask what you do, are you going to tell them that you clean toilets? Where does that leave him?"

The shame on Henry's face vanished. It was like he'd found his footing.

"Exactly! Sylvia's right! I'll be honest with you. I never had any debt. I've been pretending to be broke this whole time. So what?"

He stepped closer, eyeing me with contempt. "You clean toilets for a living. How do you even compare to Sylvia? She's young, beautiful, and she looks good in my arms. Yet you? What can you do besides kneel on the floor and scrub?

"I married you because you could make money. Why else would I ever pick someone like you?"

After eight years of marriage and paying off his debt, Henry was my reward.

I stared at him. He suddenly felt like a stranger.

For the first time, I saw the filth beneath his face.

"You really outdid yourself, Henry," I said, my voice echoing through the room. It was eerily calm.

"I made eight thousand a month. I spent eight years scrubbing toilets to fill your so-called million-dollar hole. And now you're calling it a test to see if I'm cheap, stupid, and easy enough to fool."

Henry lifted his chin. "Yeah, it was a test. It's over now. You passed. Now that you know the truth, there's no reason to continue our marriage. Let's get divorced."

He paused, then put on a fake, considerate expression.

"Besides, I have cancer. Late-stage liver cancer. I won't drag you down. You should go and find someone better. I won't blame you."

Sylvia immediately wrapped herself around his arm. "Henry, you're too kind to her! After everything she's done, you're still thinking about her."

She turned and glared at me.

"Did you hear that? He has cancer, yet he's still putting you first! He's already done more than enough for you these past eight years!"

By now, people had gathered outside the door. Hotel security tried to step in, but the front desk staff held them back.

Voices buzzed all around.

"Seriously, she looks so plain. Who knew she'd be this cold?"

"Her husband's terminally ill, and she still wants a divorce?"

"Didn't you hear him? He admitted that he had been lying to her for eight years, yet he still has the nerve to act righteous about it. That's something else."

I stood there, stunned. Just then, my phone buzzed.

It was a message from Dewey. "The evidence is solid. I've prepared to formally file fraud charges against Sylvia and Henry for financial deception during marriage. Don't worry, I'll get your money back."

I stared at the message. For the first time in eight years, the weight on my shoulders was lifted.