I never imagined that the darkest day of my life would begin with such radiant sunshine illuminating the Madrid sky. The afternoon light streamed through the windows of our apartment in the Salamanca district, that luxury apartment I had been religiously paying for over the past four years. I was sitting on the cream-colored sofa, the one I bought on sale because Alejandro insisted we needed furniture that would “project success” for his investors, even though those investors never materialized and I was the one who paid every installment. The key turned in the lock at two in the afternoon, which was odd, since Alejandro usually arrived after seven with excuses about endless meetings.

Alejandro walked in wearing an impeccable suit, paid for with my salary, and without saying hello, tossed a manila envelope onto the coffee table. The sharp sound of the paper hitting the table echoed like a gunshot. “Divorce papers,” he said with a coldness that chilled me to the bone. “My lawyer has already filled everything out. You just have to sign.” I froze, my hands trembling as he launched into a speech that sounded rehearsed. He told me that we had stopped working, that he had moved on to a higher phase of his life, and that I, with my small job as a designer, was simply holding him back.

The most painful thing wasn’t the divorce itself, but his exact words: “You were just a temporary stepping stone. I’ve grown more than you.” He talked about his successes, his company, how he was self-made, ignoring the fact that I had paid his rent, his food, and his insurance for six years. When I mentioned my financial support, he dismissed it arrogantly, saying they were “gifts” to support his dreams. He expected to see me cry, beg, or scream. However, something strange happened inside me. Instead of tears, my lips curved into a smile. It wasn’t a smile of joy, but one of understanding. Alejandro was annoyed by my reaction, demanded I sign, and stormed off, saying his lawyer would contact me.

I was left alone in the living room, but the smile didn’t fade. I got up and walked to my desk, opening the same laptop I’d used to pay all his bills for years. I clicked on a hidden folder deep within my hard drive, one I’d been unconsciously populating since the day we moved in together. The folder was simply titled: “Logs.”

Within that digital folder lay the true story of our marriage, a truth very different from the one Alejandro told the world. There were six years’ worth of bank statements, receipts, hastily signed loan agreements, and emails. I had documented every euro spent on him: from the €1,500 to repair his car to the €5,000 for software licenses, adding up to an astronomical sum that he swore he had earned “on his own.” I remembered my friend Clara, a divorce lawyer, who years before had warned me not to be his girlfriend, but his bank, and advised me to keep evidence “just in case.” How right she was.

But my investigation didn’t stop there. After he left, I hired a private investigator recommended by Clara and, in a move that surprised even me, installed hidden security cameras in our living room and kitchen. I needed to document his real life, not the facade he presented to investors. Over the next few weeks, the cameras captured everything. They recorded Alejandro playing video games for hours while I was at work, and charging expensive dinners to my credit card. But the most damning evidence was the recording of his phone calls.

I listened, my heart frozen but my mind clear, as he boasted to his friends. “She’s still paying the rent, why would I stop her?” he said, laughing. And then, the phrase that sealed his fate: “Once the company goes public, I’m leaving. I’m moving to the penthouse. Amelia has already served her purpose. It’s like training wheels on a bicycle—necessary at first, but you take them off when you learn to ride.” I also discovered “Verónica,” the influencer he was cheating on me with, and how he planned to marry her using money he supposedly didn’t have.

I gathered everything: the fraud he committed against investors by claiming he had no debts, the lies on his tax returns, and the proof of his infidelity. I organized the evidence onto a new USB drive. When the day of the hearing arrived, Alejandro showed up at the courthouse with his lawyer and Verónica, dressed like she was on a runway, thinking they had already won. He expected to see a defeated woman; instead, he saw me sitting next to Clara, calm, with a new haircut and an impeccable suit. His lawyer began with typical arrogance, asserting to the judge that Alejandro was a self-made man and that there were no shared assets to divide, requesting a clean separation without compensation. That’s when Clara stood up and said, “Your Honor, we absolutely contest that characterization. We have extensive documentation.”

The atmosphere in the courtroom changed dramatically when Clara opened her briefcase. She began presenting statement after statement, proving that I had paid rent, utilities, and insurance for six years, along with the loan agreements Alejandro had carelessly signed. Alejandro’s lawyer tried to argue that they were “spousal gifts,” but Clara was relentless: “These are documented loans. And there’s more. Mr. Mitchell committed fraud by telling his investors he had no outstanding debts.” Alejandro began to pale, but the final blow was yet to come.

“My client has one last piece of evidence that puts Mr. Mitchell’s character into context,” Clara announced. I stood and walked to the bench, placing the USB drive in front of the judge. “These are security camera recordings from our home,” I said. The judge inserted the drive and played the files. The courtroom fell silent as Alejandro’s voice filled the space, mocking me, calling me “pathetic,” and admitting that he used me as a personal bank account only to discard me later.

The judge listened attentively, and then did something unusual: she burst out laughing. Not a polite laugh, but a genuine laugh of disbelief at such brazenness. Then her face hardened. She looked at Alejandro and pronounced her sentence in a voice that cut through the air. “In twenty years, I have rarely seen such calculated and documented exploitation,” she said.

The ruling was devastating for him. The judge ordered the full repayment of the €178,342 he had lent her, plus six years of compound interest, totaling approximately €212,000. But the best part was this: she awarded me 40% of the shares in her tech company as compensation for being an undisclosed financial founder. Furthermore, she referred the case to the public prosecutor’s office to investigate securities fraud and tax evasion. Alejandro was devastated, stammering, while Verónica quietly slipped out of the courtroom, never to be seen again.

Six months later, sitting in my own design office, founded with the settlement money, I looked at the plaque on my wall: “Support those who deserve it. Document those who don’t.” Alejandro had lost everything, but I had built my future on the truth.

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