I thought Collins was the one. He was gentle, thoughtful, and remembered small things like my sick cat or my favorite tea.

After a year of dating, he proposed, and I moved into the house he shared with his mother, Jenna.

That’s when things changed.

Chore lists replaced affection, and I became the unpaid maid.

Collins stopped helping, and Jenna began treating me like live-in staff.

I thought it was temporary until it became the new normal.

Then I got injured at work. Torn ligament. Six weeks off my feet. Collins said he’d take care of me

. The first day, he and Jenna carried me upstairs, fluffed pillows, handed me water and locked the bedroom door from the outside.

I was stunned. Minutes later, a paper slid under the door: a

“Home Contribution Agreement” demanding I cook, clean, and pay rent once recovered

. Their signatures were on it. Mine was missing but they left me a pen.

What they didn’t know? I had a backup plan. I’d hidden a spare key behind the headboard months ago.

I unlocked the door, grabbed my phone, and called my sister.

When police arrived, I handed them the contract and my medical papers.

Collins and Jenna tried to spin it but the truth was clear

. I left that night and never looked back.

A week later, I filed for divorce. Collins tried to fight it, but my brother-in-law who’s a lawyer buried him in evidence.

He lost the case, and his job. Jenna got evicted.

When I saw Collins at the pharmacy weeks later, he said,

“You ruined my life.” I smiled. “No I just finally chose mine.”

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