1 The property management app flashed a notification while I was in a company meeting. “Renovation permit submitted for Apartment 1702, Building 3, Riverbend Towers. Applicant: Marcus Chen, Relationship to Owner: Spouse.” I read it three times. Marcus Chen. Spouse. I flipped through my marriage certificate. It bore my name, Alexander Liu. That was my name. I stared at that message for a long time. Apartment 1702, Building 3, Riverbend Towers. It was a place I’d bought before marriage. Paid in full. Two hundred thousand dollars. My parents contributed one hundred and twenty thousand, and I saved eighty thousand. Only my name was on the deed. A prenuptial agreement was signed before the wedding. After we married, the apartment had been rented out, bringing in four hundred and fifty dollars a month, directly deposited into my account. Six months ago, the lease expired. Charlotte told me she’d found new tenants for me. “Don’t worry, the people I found are reliable, five hundred a month.” I was quite pleased at the time, an extra fifty dollars. But now— New tenants? Or “spouse” Marcus Chen? I excused myself from the meeting room, found an empty corner, and dialed the property management. “Hello, I’m the owner of Apartment 1702, Building 3, Riverbend Towers. I’d like to inquire about a renovation permit.” The property manager said: “Oh, Mr. Chen submitted it last week. All documents were in order, and work has begun.” “What identity did Mr. Chen claim?” “He said he was the owner’s husband, renovating their matrimonial home.” Matrimonial home. My apartment, his matrimonial home. “How long has the renovation been going on?” “Three months now. Almost finished.” Three months. My apartment had been renovated by a stranger for three months, and I knew nothing about it. I hung up the phone. My hand wasn’t shaking. My heart pounded, but my mind was perfectly clear. I opened my banking app, checking Charlotte’s credit card statements. We’d linked a supplementary card when we got married; I could see the transactions. I scrolled back three months. Home Décor Emporium, $1,860. Furniture Haven, $3,200. Premium Tiles Inc., $2,750. Bespoke Interiors, $8,900. Transaction after transaction. All for building materials and furniture. In three months, twenty thousand dollars spent on the credit card. I scrolled further. Every month, there was a fixed transfer of $500, recipient: Marcus Chen. This transfer had started a year ago. A year. Five hundred dollars every month. I leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath. Not anger. A very quiet coldness. Charlotte Thorne, my wife, was using my apartment to live with another man. She told me she’d found new tenants. The “tenant” was named Marcus Chen. She transferred him five hundred dollars every month. He was renovating my apartment, spending tens of thousands. To the property management, he claimed to be the “owner’s spouse.” I checked my contacts. Samuel ‘Sam’ Carter. My college roommate, now a divorce attorney. I sent him a message: “Free for dinner? My treat.” Three seconds later, he replied: “Your treat? Are you getting a divorce?” Lawyers’ instincts, sharp as ever. I didn’t reply. I needed to clarify one thing first. Who was Marcus Chen? 2 The name Marcus Chen felt familiar. I felt like I’d seen it somewhere. I searched Charlotte’s Messenger. It was password-protected. But I knew the password – her father’s birthday. Three years of marriage, she’d never changed it. I didn’t tap into it immediately. I first checked something else. I opened Instagram, searched “Riverbend Towers renovation.” The third post. Account name: “Marcus’s Cozy Corner.” The profile picture was a young man, perm-styled hair, slender face, fashionably dressed. The most recent post was yesterday. Title: “$50,000 to create my wife and my dream home renovation finally almost done!” Nine photos were attached. I scrolled through them, one by one. Full house hardwood flooring. Custom cabinetry. Central air conditioning. Smart toilet. Sintered stone dining table. The master bedroom had a floor-to-ceiling window. I recognized that window. Because it was my window. When I bought the apartment, I chose this layout specifically for that window. I screenshotted all nine photos. Then scrolled through his previous posts. Three months ago: “Day one of renovation, even the sound of demolition feels like happiness.” Two months ago: “Cabinets arrived! The style my wife chose, I’m in love.” A month ago: “Bathroom modified for wet and dry separation, that alone cost three thousand.” Each post had comments below it. “So happy! Your wife is so generous!” “Fifty thousand dollar renovation, what a splurge!” “Is this a new home? So spacious!” He replied: “Yes, my wife bought it before we got married, never renovated it. Now it’s finally coming together.” Wife bought it before marriage. I smiled. She told him the apartment was hers. Interesting. I scrolled further. To the earliest post. A year ago. “Moved into our new home today! It’s still a blank canvas, but with my wife, it’s home.” He had moved in a year ago. And Charlotte had told me she’d “found new tenants.” The tenant was him. The rent? That was the five hundred dollars she transferred him monthly. She was using my apartment to keep her lover, and telling me I was collecting rent. I screenshotted and saved all the posts. Then I zoomed in on his profile picture. Looking at that face. I had indeed seen it before. It took me ten seconds to recall where. Three years ago. The company’s annual gala. Charlotte brought a fresh graduate to me: “Honey, this is my new colleague, Marcus. He wants to get promoted, could you mentor him?” I treated him to two dinners. Helped him revise his resume. Recommended him to a department. He called me “Mr. Liu.” He said: “Mr. Liu, I’ll definitely repay you someday.” Now he had repaid me. With my apartment, he built his nest. I locked my phone. Closed my eyes. No tears. It wouldn’t help. I opened my eyes, unlocked my phone again, and tapped into Charlotte’s Messenger. I needed to know more. 3 The chat history was more extensive than I’d imagined. Charlotte had set Marcus Chen’s contact name to a sun emoji. I scrolled to the earliest records. Date—two years and three months ago. I did the math. That month, I suffered an acute appendicitis attack. That month, I fainted from pain and was rushed to the hospital. That month, I lay in the hospital bed, too weak to speak. Charlotte, that very month, confessed her feelings to Marcus. The chat history was crystal clear. “You know, from the first day I saw you, my heart skipped a beat.” Marcus replied: “But you’re married.” Charlotte said: “I have no feelings for him anymore.” Marcus: “Really?” Charlotte: “Really. Our marriage has been dead for a long time.” Dead for a long time. What was the date again? I checked the calendar. April 17th. On April 17th, I was still in the hospital. I vividly remembered that evening, alone in my hospital room, messaging Charlotte: “When are you coming?” She replied: “Working late, I’ll be there later.” She was working late. Confessing her feelings to Marcus Chen. I scrolled further. In May, I was discharged and went home. Still recuperating. Charlotte’s chat history showed her taking Marcus to a Japanese restaurant. In June, I had my first post-surgery inflammation, my stomach cramping so badly I couldn’t stand straight. Charlotte’s records showed them visiting Lakeview Resort. Marcus posted: “So happy, darling! Our first trip together.” Charlotte replied: “I’ll take you every year from now on.” That month, I asked Charlotte: “You look tanned?” She said: “Been out and about a lot for work recently.” I believed her. I kept scrolling. Two years and three months of chat history. Everything was there. Sweet nothings. Flirtation. Dates. And some pictures I never wanted to see again. I screenshotted and saved everything I needed. Then I saw a crucial conversation. It was six months ago. Marcus asked: “Darling, can I really live in that apartment?” Charlotte said: “Of course, I bought it before we got married, it’s in my name. Once I divorce him, it will be our home.” Marcus: “But won’t your husband have an issue?” Charlotte: “He doesn’t know. I told him it was rented out. Don’t worry, he’ll never know.” Marcus: “When do we start renovating?” Charlotte: “You handle it, you pay for it first, and I’ll pay you back everything once I’m divorced.” Marcus: “Okay, darling!” I looked at this conversation. She said the apartment was in her name. She said Marcus should pay for the renovation first. She said she’d repay him everything once she was divorced. Three sentences, three lies. The apartment was mine. She had no intention of repaying him. Divorce? She planned to leave me with nothing. I put down my phone. I had spent three years with this person. She cheated on me the month I had surgery. She used my apartment to house her lover. She tricked her lover into paying for renovations. She planned to leave me penniless. I picked up my phone again, continuing to scroll. I needed to know what else she had done. 4 I spent an entire night going through our finances. Charlotte thought I was clueless about money. Because ever since we got married, I never managed her salary account. What she didn’t know was that I had a finance background. I just didn’t manage it. That didn’t mean I couldn’t. I opened our joint account. This account was opened after we married, with both our salaries deposited into it. Balance: $1,420. I gasped. Last month, our combined salaries were $3,500. Where was the money? I pulled up the transaction history for the past year. Transaction by transaction. Every month, Charlotte consistently transferred money to an account ending in 4477. The amounts varied. One thousand, two thousand, once even thirty-five hundred. Over the year, forty-three thousand dollars had been transferred. Forty-three thousand dollars. I continued my investigation. Whose account was the one ending in 4477? I found it in Charlotte’s phone’s transfer records. Account name: Charlotte Thorne. She had opened an account I didn’t know about. Systematically transferred our joint savings out, piece by piece. I found another transfer. Eight months ago, eighteen thousand dollars transferred from the 4477 account. Memo: Car payment. I remembered. Marcus Chen’s Instagram had a post: “Birthday gift from my wife.” A white Honda Civic. Eighteen thousand dollars. From our joint savings. Registered in Marcus Chen’s name. I printed screenshots of all the transactions. $43,000 transferred. $18,000 for a car. $500 monthly transfers to Marcus Chen. Credit card renovation expenses of $23,000. Plus what Marcus Chen himself had covered— Approximately $90,000 in total. In these three years, she had stolen nearly $90,000 from our marriage. I sat at my desk, the computer screen light illuminating my face. Charlotte was watching TV in the living room. She didn’t know I was checking the accounts. She thought I was working overtime. She thought I knew nothing. She thought everything was under control. “Honey, I’ve washed some apples. Do you want one?” She called from the living room. Her voice was normal. Just like always. I closed my laptop and walked out. “Sure, thanks.” I took an apple. Took a bite. Sweet. She continued watching TV. I sat beside her, eating the apple she’d washed, looking at her profile. This face, while I was in the hospital, told another man, “I have no feelings for him anymore.” I finished the apple and smiled. “Honey, have you been busy lately? Lots of overtime?” “Yeah, lots of projects.” “That’s tough.” “It’s fine.” She didn’t even glance at me. I returned to my study. Opened my phone. Sent Sam a message. “Are you free tomorrow for lunch? I want a divorce. This time, I’m serious.” Sam replied instantly: “My treat tomorrow. Get your situation organized and bring it with you.” I started compiling. Property deed. Prenuptial agreement. Screenshots of infidelity chats. Social media screenshots. Bank statements. Transfer records. Marcus Chen’s delivery address. It totaled over forty pages. Printed, and placed into a file folder. I glanced at the time. 1 AM. The TV in the living room went silent. Charlotte walked over: “Not sleeping yet?” “Soon.” She left. I locked the file folder in a drawer. But I didn’t go to sleep right away. Because I was thinking about one thing. I could confront her now. But— Marcus Chen’s renovation wasn’t finished yet. On Instagram, he said, “Just the final touches of soft furnishings.” Just a little more. If I confronted her now, he would have spent forty thousand. If I waited until he finished everything, he would have spent fifty thousand. Wait half a month longer. Get an extra ten thousand. And— Sam had said: “Fixtures and fittings are part of the real estate; legally, they belong to the owner.” The more he put in, the more I would get. I turned off the light. Got into bed. Charlotte was already asleep, her back to me. I looked at her back. Just you wait. 5 The next day at noon, I handed Sam the file folder. He read it for half an hour. His expression shifted from calm to shocked, then to anger. Finally, he closed the folder and looked at me. “Alexander, your wife is truly ruthless.” I said nothing. He began to break it down for me, point by point. “First, the apartment. The Riverbend Towers unit, bought in full before marriage, solely in your name on the deed, and with a prenuptial agreement. This is your personal property, she has no claim to a single cent of it.” “I know.” “Second, Marcus Chen’s renovations. Legally, permanent fixtures – flooring, ceilings, custom cabinets, built-in appliances – are considered part of the real estate, and transfer with the property. In other words, what he installed in your apartment, is yours.” “He can’t take it?” “Custom cabinets are bolted to the walls, floors are laid down. How would he take them? Dismantle them? They wouldn’t be worth anything once disassembled.” I nodded. “Third, community property. The forty-three thousand dollars she transferred out is considered embezzlement of marital assets. You can claim full recovery during the divorce.” “What about the car?” “She used community property to buy a car for a third party. This can be used as evidence of fault. When the court rules on the divorce, with evidence of infidelity and asset transfer, you can claim a larger share.” Sam looked at me. “Your situation now is – you have the apartment, the evidence, the law. She has nothing.” I said: “I know.” “So, what are you planning to do?” I said: “Wait until he finishes the renovation.” Sam paused, then he smiled. “You’re going to wait for him to spend all fifty thousand, then take possession?” “He’s almost finished. Just the last bit of soft furnishings.” “Wait for the soft furnishings too?” “Yes.” Sam looked at me, then laughed aloud. “Alexander, you’re tougher than I thought.” I said: “It’s not that I’m tough. He’s renovating my apartment. I’m just waiting for him to finish.” Sam thought for a moment, then seriously said: “Legally, there’s no issue. You are the owner; he renovated your property without your consent. You have the right to reclaim the apartment at any time. His renovation losses, he can seek compensation from Charlotte. It has nothing to do with you.” “Good.” “I’ll prepare all the legal documents for you. Lawyer’s letter, divorce petition, asset preservation application. Ready to use at any time.” “No rush for now.” “Wait for him to finish?” “Wait for him to finish.” We clinked glasses. Sam said: “This meal is on me.” I said: “The next one’s on me. In that newly renovated apartment.” Sam chuckled. For the next two weeks, I did nothing. Normal work. Normal home. Normal meals, TV, and conversations with Charlotte. When she said she was working late, I told her to take care of herself. When she said she was on a business trip, I told her to be careful on the road. What she didn’t know was— Every transfer she made, I recorded. Every Instagram post from Marcus, I saw. Every legal document, Sam prepared. All I had to do was wait. Wait for that fifty thousand dollars to be completely spent. 6 In those two weeks of waiting, I did a few things. First, I contacted a locksmith. I found a certified locksmith company online. “I need a new smart lock installed.” “Okay, when?” “I’ll let you know.” Second, I visited the notary’s office. I had an additional notarization done for the property deed, confirming that the property had no rental or usage authorization whatsoever. The notary asked me: “What are you trying to prevent?” I said: “Preventing someone from claiming I consented to their occupancy.” Third, I went to the bank and froze the joint account. Sam helped me apply to the court for asset preservation. Charlotte’s account ending in 4477, and her credit cards, were all frozen. She didn’t know yet. By the time she found out, it would be too late. Fourth, I found Marcus Chen’s online loan records. Sam helped me with this. Marcus Chen was 27, a clerk at Charlotte’s company. Monthly salary: six hundred dollars. Fifty thousand dollars for renovations, where did he get the money? The answer was – online loans. Three platforms. He’d borrowed thirty-two thousand dollars in total. The remaining eighteen thousand, he’d put on four credit cards. A young man earning six hundred dollars a month, burdened with fifty thousand dollars in debt, renovating an apartment that wasn’t his. Because Charlotte told him: “This is my apartment. Once I’m divorced, I’ll put it in your name. I’ll pay you back all the money.” He believed her. Looking at these figures, I actually felt a fleeting moment of pity for him. But only for a second. Because I remembered a passage from the chat logs. Marcus asked Charlotte: “Will your husband find out?” Charlotte said: “No. He’s a workaholic, doesn’t pay attention to anything.” Marcus replied with a laughing emoji, then said: “Right, he’s the type who just works all day, never bothers with romantic surprises, no wonder you…” I didn’t finish reading the rest. Pity? Forget it. Let everyone face their own consequences. Fifth. I sent Charlotte a message. “Honey, I’m on a business trip next week, Monday to Friday, to Seattle.” She replied: “Okay, be safe.” Three seconds later, another message: “Good timing, I’m busy this week too, you don’t have to worry about the house.” Don’t have to worry about the house. Are you afraid of me coming back? I smiled. The “business trip” was, of course, a lie. I needed to give them time. For Marcus to finish the last of the soft furnishings. During those “business trip” days, I kept an eye on Marcus Chen’s Instagram. Tuesday: “The sofa arrived! Real leather! My wife said only the best.” I looked up the sofa in the photo. Three thousand eight hundred dollars. Wednesday: “Curtains are up, the blackout effect is amazing!” Thursday: “Last item – a decorative painting. Hung it on the living room wall.” In the photo, Marcus stood in front of the painting, smiling broadly. Behind him was the brand-new living room. My living room. Friday, he posted his last update. Fifty thousand and eighty dollars. I screenshotted it. Then made three phone calls. First, the locksmith: “Monday morning works?” “Yes.” Second, Sam: “Are the documents ready?” “Long ready.” Third, Riverbend Towers property management: “Hello, I’m Alexander Liu, owner of Apartment 1702, Building 3. Would it be convenient for you to assist me with something tomorrow morning?” “What is it?” “Reclaiming my apartment.” I put down my phone. Outside the window were the lights of Seattle. In reality, I hadn’t gone anywhere. I stayed in a hotel for five days. Alone. But not lonely. Because I knew, starting tomorrow, everything would be different. Fifty thousand and eighty dollars. Marcus Chen, thank you for renovating for me. 7 Monday morning at 8:30 AM. I stood at the base of Riverbend Towers. Beside me stood Sam, the locksmith, and the property manager I had arranged to meet. Sam was in a suit, holding a black folder. The locksmith carried his toolbox. The property manager seemed a little nervous: “Mr. Liu, are you sure about today?” “Absolutely.” “But there are people living inside.” “I know.” I patted the folder. “This contains the original property deed, the prenuptial agreement, and the supplementary notarization. This apartment is 100% mine. The people living inside do not have my authorization.” The property manager nodded: “Then we will cooperate.” We took the elevator up. Reached the 17th floor. Walked to the door of 1702. The door had a newly installed smart lock. Keypad lock. Fingerprint lock. Marcus had changed it. I took a deep breath. Then, knocked. Once. Twice. Footsteps sounded inside. The door opened. Marcus Chen stood there in home clothes, his hair disheveled, his face showing the weariness of just waking up. He saw me and froze. Three seconds. Then his eyes slowly widened. “Mr… Mr. Liu?”
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