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My Husband’s $2M Mistake Granted Me Behind-the-Scenes Access to His Web of Lies

 

$2 million can buy a lot of things — but spotty WiFi shouldn’t be one of them. I ascended to the townhome’s empty third-floor office, hoping the elevation would result in a few more bars. No such luck — but somehow, my phone’s calendar broke through the poor connection to ping me the reminder I didn’t need.

The unfamiliar name flashed across my screen with a camouflaged agenda. Unlike my husband, I wasn’t veiling my digital encounters to conceal extramarital affairs from his wandering glance; instead, I was shielding my identity from the very person whose help I sought out. Most people probably don’t approach a divorce lawyer with an alias, a burner email, and an obscured phone number; however, after my negative encounter with the 5150-hungry therapist, my trust has been worn incredibly thin.

With only fifteen minutes until I was scheduled to face the man who scored my recent poolside acquaintance, Kathy, a 9-figure divorce settlement, I still wasn’t convinced my husband hadn’t gotten to him first — or perhaps planted Kathy at Rancho Valencia in the first place. With the walls caving in on our small world, it seems every key figure in my life has a tangential role to play in my husband’s sexual proclivities, financial activity, or business engagements.

At this point, anonymity is paramount until I retain legal counsel — and even then, my lawyer will be the one signing the NDAs before I divulge one traceable, personally identifying word.

…

What’s faster than the speed of light? Cash.

There’s one fatal mistake you should never make in life, marriage, or apparently escrow: Don’t blink. Looking down at the pale blue envelope equipped with an assortment of brassy and silver-toned keys, an overwhelming sense of betrayal, confusion, and self-loathing chilled me from head to toe, sending shivers of regret down my spine.

It hadn’t even been two months since my dad’s likely dementia and unfounded abuse allegations had rocked my parents marriage to the point of separation. A little over a month ago, I located the safe space for my newly single mom down the road in Corona del Mar — a quiet, manicured nook of our city that should provide her a drama-free escape to start over. Today, however, I was surprised — or rather ambushed — by the news that we closed on the $2M rear unit duplex…

Correction: My husband — or his business…who knows — closed on the duplex.

Last I heard, his new financial operations lackey would be reaching out to me to assist in acquiring the townhome for my mom. Just to clarify, this townhome was meant as Hubby’s peace offering in exchange for my silence surrounding the Laguna bungalow brothel I’d unexpectedly stumbled upon, compliments to a thorough private investigator. It was understood that I would be involved in this transaction, and most importantly, that my mother’s (and possibly my) name should be on the title.

I’d love to tell you that’s exactly what happened, but I wouldn’t know — since I never received a copy of the title. In fact, I never received a single piece of paperwork, nor an email, text, or phone call regarding any portion of the escrow process. I didn’t sign a thing. Yet, here we are, just a few weeks later with a closed transaction and a set of keys in hand.

You might consider a gifted $2M Italian-style townhome steps from an elite billionaire’s beach a welcomed gesture; perhaps even generous. After years of my husband’s strategic illusions and well-placed distractions coming to light, I’m a bit too cynical — or perhaps “woke” as they say — to believe his sparing me the paperwork headache was anything close to generous.

Let’s just say, I’d bet (all his) money I can’t lay claim to one square centimeter of that property, nor can my mom. I’m not sure if he’s insulating his real estate portfolio proactively (ahead of a suspected divorce) or simply playing the power card and creating a landlord-tenant dynamic, but I’m fairly certain the decision isn’t in my favor.
Oh, and as far as closing a real estate deal in a matter of weeks? My only guess is he put down the $2M in cold, hard cash…another few million he’s made sure I’ll never see.

The devil is always in the details

One small downside my husband neglected to factor — blinded by his offensive strategy — was that perhaps waiving the contingency period on this property wasn’t his brightest move. Lucky for me, it’s resulted in my back-row seat to his mistress in the attached front unit. A longer escrow process might have clued him into the attached unit’s address and spooked the deal; thank goodness time was of the essence in his book.

Loud Lambos and secrets don’t mesh well

I strained my ears to decipher and unscramble the garbled speech that trickled through the most disastrous Zoom dial-in call I’ve ever experienced. Throughout the pandemic, Zooming in our circle has became a bit of a competitor’s sport — and not one for amateurs. Some women have gone so far as to construct entire “Zoom” rooms equipped with professional lighting, perfectly-placed décor, and panoramic access to their 8-figure views of Balboa Island, little Corona del Mar Beach, and Pelican Hill’s ocean-backed golfing green.

This Zoom call — though arguably far more important than those frivolous, wealth-flaunting engagements — suffered from a wavering signal that seemed to strategically cut out the most crucial parts of each sentence. It jogged my memory to the pre-DVR age when we sat through an onslaught of “Can you hear me now?” Verizon commercials. Just as another bar emerged and the lawyer’s voice leapfrogged in clarity, an ear-splitting roar from outside sped down the alley, magnified in volume as it neared the house.

The house was actually shaking, from the foundation up. A non-native Californian might have called “earthquake!” and run downstairs and outside. Having spent the majority of my last 39 years residing somewhere between southern coastal Orange County and downtown Los Angeles, I’ve been through my fair share of earthquakes and can assure you they don’t hold a candle to a man with a small ego driving a fast, loud car to make up for his other shortcomings.

If the house hadn’t been shaking so much, I might have chalked it up to rich Newport kids taking their Sweet 16 wheels out for a reckless neighborhood race. But the house wasn’t just shaking; the garage door was opening and someone — multiple people — were entering down below.

I scurried out the office’s French doors to the rooftop patio for a better view, just as the tail end of a red Mercedes disappeared below, trailed by a purple Lambo and its merciless, blaring engine waking any and every creature within earshot. While I may have been stonewalled and kept out of the loop on the townhome’s escrow period, my pre-escrow due diligence didn’t go to waste: The familiar red Mercedes had returned to mark her territory, and her driver — my husband’s recurring mistress (or supposed employee) — brought an accomplice for her dirty work.

To be completely honest, I know my husband is the real villain in all this — but it’s increasingly hard to reserve judgement as these not-so-innocent-looking women continue to encroach upon my marriage — and my finances. That said, it sure did look like she was screwing around with Lambo guy under my husband’s roof, too…If one betrayal doesn’t reveal a homewrecker’s immoral character, does two? At what point can I call her just as much the problem as my sex-addicted spouse?

Initially, seeing the purple Lambo didn’t sound off any additional alarms. It isn’t exactly unusual to see 6-figure sports cars zooming around these neighborhoods. However, that didn’t stop me from peering over the rooftop balcony for a glimpse of red Mercedes woman’s other sugar daddy. Three beeps and the call dropped, just as the Lambo’s engine finally settled into silence in the front unit’s carport. A young-looking man got out — though from my bird’s eye vantage point three stories up, I couldn’t make out the details of his face…

But I didn’t need to. My visual memory clicked into place like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle, and the details rapidly materialized, connecting each dot into one cohesive picture. With the same car and the same dark, buzzed haircut, muscular neck, and angular jaw, homewrecker’s sugar daddy number two wasn’t a sugar daddy at all; he was my daughter’s trust-fund boyfriend and my husband’s pity-hire intern. Wow. Either my husband’s business is a breeding ground for incestuous office romances or I’d stumbled upon the two bad apples in the whole damn bunch.

Seeing this man waltz right into homewrecker’s front unit, his impure motives aged him about ten years in my eyes. While my husband may overlook our not-yet-16-year-old daughter dating his 20-something intern, I’m too disgusted to keep my mouth shut just to appease Hubby’s golf buddy and sometimes business acquaintance.

Laying eyes again on the woman responsible for a good chunk of my husband’s unscrupulous sexual services business engagements — from the brothel to whatever role she plays in his new endeavor — I care least about the affair. Don’t get me wrong — no one likes to find that their husband is screwing a dozen Kim Kardashian-meets-Barbie clones 25 years his junior. However, this woman is worse than all that.

She’s worse than all of the fifty-odd women from whom he purchased virtual sexual services and X-rated photos. She’s worse than the $460k he burned fueling a throng of cam girls’ and amateur porn stars’ lifestyles. She’s worse because somehow, he respects her — something I could apparently never earn. She hasn’t just acquired his sexual interest (which isn’t that hard to do), but she’s somehow convinced him to grant her a place in his world — in his business.

I know they say men are more rocked by sexual affairs, while women feel more betrayed from emotional affairs; but what about business affairs? What about affairs in which the formerly submissive, money-hungry mistress becomes the purse-strings-wielding decision-maker?

After 16+ years as his wife, by his side, muting my dreams and surrendering my independence in favor of his success, haven’t I earned at least an ounce of respect? Shouldn’t I be the one kept abreast of his real estate deals and new business endeavors? Apparently not. I guess being his in-home sexual servant (and anything else he wanted me to be) wasn’t enough; maybe nothing would have been.

Maybe this is petty — and maybe I’m wrong — but I feel there’s a brazenness to purple Lambo boy. If he wanted to be discreet, he wouldn’t have made out with my daughter in my driveway (in plain sight), unfazed by the age gap — or my car pulling in. Then again, if he really wanted to be discreet, he’d put a better muffler on that Lambo. Or perhaps drive a quieter vehicle altogether. Or perhaps not have waltzed right into the clandestine townhome reserved for keeping Hubby’s mistress in her million-dollar accommodations.

It seems that he doesn’t care if he gets caught — or what I think of him. Or what my husband — his boss — think of him. Or if I tell my daughter that he’s far from boyfriend material — regardless of the age gap. That’s a lot of gall in one entitled, trust-fund-backed human. Money isn’t all bad, but when it produces this type of offspring, it’s no wonder people hate the rich. But maybe that’s why Hubby likes this kid; maybe he sees himself in him. If that’s true, it’s probably the worst part.

…

Three questions no amount of money can solve

  • Do I tell my daughter her age-inappropriate boyfriend is two-timing her? Clearly forbidding the romance isn’t an option — I just don’t have that type of power — even over my own kids. At least not without Hubby’s support.
  • Is there ever a right way to confront the woman in the front unit? I guess I don’t have 100% concrete proof she’s sleeping with my husband — but I can definitely place her at multiple of his business and personal (seemingly sexual) engagements…
  • Should I bite the bullet and retain Kathy’s divorce lawyer on the hope and the prayer that he hasn’t already been infiltrated by my husband’s team — or swayed by financial bribery to screw me over ever-so-subtly?

 

 

The worst feeling is one of paralysis, as if I’m too early to pull the trigger on the divorce case — at least if I hoped to protect myself and build up an arsenal of personal assets, yet simultaneously falling behind my husband’s offensive 4D-chess moves in pursuit of my ex-trophy wife demise.

Oh, and once my mom hears that we closed on the $2M oceanside townhome, she’s likely to jump on the bandwagon of women singing his praises, ignorantly believing Hubby would make her a real estate millionaire overnight. I already have an adversarial mother-in-law worshipping her son and criticizing my shortcomings to no end; the last thing I need is my real mom turning on me, too. Money may buy real estate and fancy cars, but it definitely can’t buy trust or loyalty. In fact, I think sometimes it repels them altogether.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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The post My Husband’s $2M Mistake Granted Me Behind-the-Scenes Access to His Web of Lies appeared first on The Good Men Project.

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