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.

"Fine. Let's get a divorce," I said.

Henry and Sylvia both froze.

"What did you just say?" Henry asked in disbelief.

I repeated, "Let's get a divorce. We'll finish it at the courthouse today."

Sylvia's face lit up with pure excitement.

"Henry! She agreed! Hurry, let's go now! Once we get the papers, we can finally be together openly!"

Henry glanced at me as something complicated flickered in his eyes. Then, relief washed over his face. He nodded. "Alright. Let's go."

…

At the courthouse, the staff looked at the three of us in confusion.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

Henry cut in immediately. "Yes! Just process it!"

The staff sighed and handed over the forms. "Sign here."

Henry signed so fast that his pen nearly tore through the paper.

Sylvia stood beside him as she gripped his arm tightly. She could barely hide her smile.

I picked up the pen. Stroke by stroke, I wrote my name.

Then, it was stamped.

Henry snatched his copy of the divorce certificate. He flipped through it repeatedly before bursting into a fit of laughter.

"I'm free! I'm finally free!"

Sylvia threw herself into his arms. "Babe! Let's book the tickets now! Malakor's sunny beach is waiting for us!"

The two of them clung to each other as they laughed as if nothing else mattered.

Henry wrapped an arm around Sylvia and walked over to me.

"Madeline, I should thank you," he began. "Thank you for working yourself to death for eight years to make money for me. Now, you can go back to scrubbing toilets. Sylvia and I are off to live the good life."

Sylvia leaned into him with a sweet smile on her face.

"Madeline's had it rough, too. Eight years of cleaning toilets, and now she has nothing left. Kind of pathetic, honestly."

She paused, then raised an eyebrow with a smirk. "Oh, Madeline, you don't know, do you? Henry's cancer is fake. The report was fake. It cost us 200 bucks. How else were we going to squeeze that last 50 thousand out of you?"

"That's right! It was fake. Every bit of it! Now that we've got the money and the divorce papers, we can finally relax and enjoy ourselves," Henry exclaimed.

I watched them, then slowly took a document out of my bag. "Your diagnosis is fake?"

"No shit," he scoffed. "If I really had cancer, how would I enjoy life?"

I handed him the file. "Take a look at this."

Henry frowned and took it. Sylvia leaned in beside him.

It was an official report from the hospital.

On it was Henry's name and his diagnosis of late-stage liver cancer.

The report had the attending physician's signature and the hospital's seal.

Henry's face turned deathly pale.