Locks were changed.
Staff confused.
The illusion gone.
But the house was only the beginning.
Because once the truth surfaced, everything else followed.
He had been using that house to impress investors—claiming it as his own.
Without it?
Everything collapsed.
That night, he came to my apartment.
Angry. Desperate.
“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded.
I looked at him.
“You hit me thirty times,” I said.
“And you think I’m the problem?”
He tried to justify it.
Said I provoked him.
That was when something inside me finally shut down.
“What do you want?” he asked.
I met his eyes.
“I want you out by Friday. I want you to face what you’ve done. And remember every number from one to thirty… before you ever raise your hand again.”
A week later, his life was in ruins.
His job suspended.
His wife gone.
The house—gone.
His image—gone.
Three weeks later, he came back.
Not as the man he thought he was.
Just someone with nothing left.
