My Mil Called Screaming That My Husband Was Dying Of Internal Bleeding. I Rushed Home From A Business Trip To Find Him Getting Married To His Ex. How Do I Destroy Them Without Getting My Hands Dirty?

The Lawyer

The morning air in the city center felt much more suffocating than usual, despite the powerful air conditioning in the industrial-chic cafe. Amara sat in the most secluded corner, her back to the large window overlooking the busy street. She wore a professional pantsuit that gave her an air of authority and protection: a long navy blue blazer paired with a matching pleated skirt. A silver silk square hijab was wrapped neatly around her head, giving a sharp definition to her jawline, which was now set firmly.

Across from her, a middle-aged man in a gray suit, Mr. Evans, was staring at a tablet screen with a deeply furrowed brow. The low hum of conversation and the clinking of spoons from other tables became a distant backdrop as Mr. Evans replayed the video Amara had recorded two nights ago. The light from the tablet screen reflected off the lawyer’s glasses, capturing the silhouette of Preston reciting his vows.

Amara just stared at her cold cup of coffee, her fingers still wearing the wedding ring that now felt like a hot shackle, twisting a napkin in her lap.

“This video is very strong evidence, Miss Reed,” Mr. Evans’s voice broke the silence. He placed the tablet on the table with a careful motion. “In this country, a second marriage ceremony, even if not legally binding, performed without the consent of the legal spouse is a serious breach of trust. This isn’t just infidelity; it’s a calculated act of bigamy in spirit, if not in law. Coupled with the fraudulent medical emergency to lure you out of town, we have a very strong case.”

Amara nodded slowly, her voice steady despite a faint tremor. “I don’t just want a divorce, Mr. Evans. I want to make sure he and his mother don’t get a single penny of my hard-earned money. The house we live in was purchased with inheritance money from my parents which I renovated with my own salary. The car is also in my name, but I know there’s a joint savings account that he has been managing for the operational costs of his failing contracting business.”

Mr. Evans jotted something down in his planner. “We have to move quickly before they realize you know. I suggest you immediately transfer the funds from the joint account to a personal account your husband is unaware of. Regarding the house, since it was funded by an inheritance with clear documentation from your side, its position is strong enough not to be categorized as purely marital property to be split 50/50, especially with this evidence of betrayal.”

Amara took a brown folder from her bag and slid it towards Mr. Evans. Inside were copies of the house deed, the last three months of bank statements, and the photo of the wedding ring receipt she found in Preston’s shirt.

“I also found evidence that he’s been regularly transferring small amounts of money to an account under the name Jessica Anderson. The amounts are small each time, but frequent. It seems the money he claimed was for construction materials was actually used to support her.”

“Excellent. We can use that to argue financial abandonment or misuse of shared assets,” Mr. Evans said with a thin, satisfied smile. “However, Miss Reed, I must warn you: once this petition is filed, they will fight back. Your mother-in-law sounds like the type who won’t hesitate to use slander.”

Amara adjusted her hijab, ensuring the pin by her ear was secure. “Let them, sir. The more they slander me, the more evidence of their poor character we can present in court. For now, I will continue to play the part of the devoted wife. I’ve even prepared a bag for him because he plans to stay at his mother’s more often under the guise of recovery.”

The Deception Continues

After the meeting ended, Amara didn’t leave right away. She sat quietly for a moment, staring at her phone screen which displayed a text message from Preston.

“Honey, my head is spinning again. I think I’ll stay at Mom’s tonight. Sorry I can’t be there to take care of you.”

Amara replied with cold, steady fingers. “That’s okay, honey. Take care of yourself. I’ve already packed your clothes in the black backpack. Get plenty of rest.”

She put her phone away and stood up; her steps felt lighter as she walked out to the parking lot. Amara knew that every piece of clothing she put in that bag wasn’t just for an overnight stay; it was the first step in slowly removing Preston from her life. She would let her husband enjoy his illegal honeymoon in a false sense of security, right before the legal storm she was brewing struck without warning.

Amara got into her car, started the engine, and began driving towards the nearest bank. Today she would make sure that, one by one, the financial lifelines for the traitor were severed.

That afternoon, heavy clouds hung low over the Detroit suburbs, creating a gloomy atmosphere that suited the charade inside the house. Amara stood in front of the large wardrobe in the master bedroom, her hands deftly folding several of Preston’s shirts and pants. She wore a knee-length tunic in a milky brown color paired with black culottes. A comfortable jersey scarf framed her face, giving the impression of a wife busy with household chores, unconcerned with her appearance. Yet behind that calm facade, every fiber of clothing she touched felt like a pile of trash she wanted to throw into an incinerator.

Preston emerged from the bathroom, walking with a deliberately dragged gait. One hand held his side while the other massaged his forehead. His acting would have been impressive if Amara didn’t know the truth. The man had just spent two hours on his phone, which Amara was certain was for exchanging loving messages with Jessica, before finally emerging with a manufactured pale face.

“Honey, I’ve packed all your clothes in the backpack. There are vitamins, pain relievers, and a thick jacket too. It gets cold at your mom’s at night, right?” Amara said in a soft voice, almost a whisper full of concern.

She turned and looked at her husband with eyes she made to look teary. Preston sat on the edge of the bed, taking a forced heavy breath.

“Thank you, Amara. I feel bad for constantly troubling you. I should be the one taking care of you, but instead I’m the one going back to my mom’s to be looked after.”

“Don’t say that. It’s my duty to make sure you get the best care. If you feel more comfortable and heal faster at your mom’s, I’m happy to let you go. Besides, she knows what you’ve needed since you were a child, right?” Amara moved closer, rubbing Preston’s shoulder with a very gentle motion as if her husband were made of fragile glass.

Preston took Amara’s hand and kissed the back of it. Amara felt a wave of immense disgust; however, she forced herself not to pull her hand away. Instead, she responded with a fake sincere smile.

“Oh, by the way, here’s a little cash for you in case you need to buy extra medicine or want to eat something they don’t have at your mom’s.” Amara took a few hundred-dollar bills from her tunic pocket and slipped them into Preston’s hand.

Preston’s eyes lit up for a moment—a flash of greed he couldn’t completely hide. “You’re so kind, Amara. I’m sorry my business is struggling and I have to rely on your money.”

“My money is your money too. The important thing is that you get well soon,” Amara replied firmly. In her heart, she laughed bitterly. That money was nothing compared to the tens of thousands of dollars she had already moved from their joint account to her secret account that morning. The money she was giving him now was just bait to make Preston feel he was still in control and not suspect her financial maneuvers.