💔 “THE HOUSE SHE WANTED”
She wanted love. She settled for power.
And when the truth knocked on her brand-new door — it wasn’t Anthony. It was Amber. 😱
The city lights flickered outside Shayla’s apartment window, the kind of faint glow that reminded her she was surviving, not living. Her small apartment smelled of baby lotion, reheated noodles, and unpaid bills stacked on the kitchen counter. The baby monitor blinked softly beside her as she scrolled through old photos of Anthony — the man who had once promised her everything, and then vanished like a coward behind his wife’s shadow.
Amber’s husband. Her best friend’s man. Her biggest mistake — and her only hope.
Shayla took a deep breath, adjusting her hair in the mirror. The reflection looking back wasn’t a victim. It was a woman who knew how to play the game.
Just then, her phone buzzed. It was Delicia.
Delicia: “Girl, you sound tired. What’s going on?”
Shayla: “Tired? No, I’m broke. That’s what I am. Broke, hungry, and stuck with a baby that looks exactly like his daddy — and guess what, daddy don’t even come around no more.”
Delicia: “Anthony still ghosting you?”
Shayla: “Ghosting? Please. He’s too scared to even breathe in my direction now that Amber found out. That woman put a whole ban on him — can’t call me, can’t see his son, can’t even send a dollar without her knowing.”
Delicia: “So what you gonna do?”
Shayla (smirking): “Get my life back. And this time, I’m gonna make Anthony pay for everything he put me through.”
Delicia laughed, half in disbelief, half in admiration. She’d seen Shayla pull off some slick moves before — but this? This sounded like war.
Delicia: “You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
Shayla: “Oh, I’m thinking exactly what you think I’m thinking. That man owes me a house. A real one. Not this shoebox I’m living in.”
Delicia: “A house? Girl, Amber will bury him alive if he tries to do that.”
Shayla: “Then I’ll make her believe it’s not his idea.”
Shayla leaned back, her mind already spinning with possibilities. She had one weapon left — their son.
Two days later, Shayla met Delicia at a small café downtown. The place was half-empty, filled with the smell of coffee and quiet gossip.
Shayla: “So here’s what I’m thinking. I’ll tell Anthony the baby needs more space. Doctors say he’s got breathing issues — you know, allergies, something believable. This apartment’s full of mold, and I can’t afford to move.”
Delicia: “Okay, that’s smart. You’ll guilt him with the baby.”
Shayla: “Exactly. He’ll do anything if he thinks the baby’s health is at risk. I’ll tell him I found a small house, nothing crazy at first. Then I’ll drop hints — a backyard, a nursery, maybe even a playroom. Once he starts paying, I’ll upgrade my dream.”
Delicia shook her head, smiling at Shayla’s sharpness.
Delicia: “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
Shayla (grinning): “I’m practical. Men like Anthony don’t respond to tears — they respond to consequences.”
She sipped her coffee slowly, imagining Anthony’s face when she would send him a picture of their son sitting on the floor beside a broken heater. The guilt would eat him alive.
That night, she texted him:
“Anthony, I didn’t wanna bother you, but Kai’s been coughing all night again. Doctor says it’s the apartment — too damp. I don’t know what to do anymore.”
She waited. Minutes turned into an hour before his reply finally came.
“I’m sorry, Shayla. I can’t talk right now. Amber’s around. I’ll send something soon.”
Shayla rolled her eyes. “Coward,” she whispered. Then she screenshot the baby’s coughing video and sent it again.
This time, no reply.
The next morning, she showed Delicia.
Delicia: “He’s scared, girl. Amber’s got his phone locked up.”
Shayla: “Then we need to get creative.”
Her voice turned colder.
Shayla: “I’m gonna show up where it hurts. His office.”
Three days later, Shayla dressed carefully — not too flashy, not too desperate. She wore a simple white dress, hair neatly tied, baby in her arms. She walked straight into Anthony’s office like she belonged there. The receptionist looked startled.
Receptionist: “Ma’am, do you have an appointment?”
Shayla: “Tell him it’s about his son.”
That line worked like a charm. Within minutes, Anthony came rushing out of his glass office, panic written all over his face.
Anthony (whispering): “What are you doing here, Shayla? You can’t be here!”
Shayla (coldly): “Relax. I didn’t come to ruin your marriage. Yet. I came to talk.”
Anthony: “Shayla, please—”
Shayla: “Our son’s been sick. We can’t stay in that dump anymore. I need a house, Anthony. A real home. For him.”
Anthony looked around nervously.
Anthony: “You know I can’t— Amber’s watching everything I do!”
Shayla: “Then figure it out. Because if my baby ends up in the hospital, you’ll have more to lose than just your wife’s trust.”
Anthony froze. She could see the fear in his eyes — and behind that fear, guilt. Exactly what she needed.
Anthony: “I’ll… I’ll see what I can do.”
Shayla (smiling): “Good. I’ll send you a few listings. Don’t take too long.”
That night, Shayla poured herself a glass of cheap wine and called Delicia.
Delicia: “You really went to his office? You’re crazy!”
Shayla: “Crazy gets results, baby.”
They both laughed, but deep inside, Shayla knew the next part wouldn’t be easy. Amber wasn’t stupid. If Anthony started sending money again, she’d notice.
Delicia: “You sure this won’t backfire?”
Shayla: “If it does, I’ll make sure it explodes in her face, not mine.”
A week later, Anthony texted.
“Found something small outside the city. I can’t put my name on it, but I’ll help with the payment. Keep it quiet, please.”
Shayla smiled wickedly. Step one — done.
But she wasn’t planning to settle for “small.” She wanted luxury. She wanted to walk into that neighborhood with her head high — the woman everyone whispered about but secretly envied.
As weeks passed, Shayla and Delicia planned every detail. She’d send Anthony emotional messages about the baby’s first steps, his laughter echoing in the hallway, the need for “space to grow.”
Each text was perfectly timed — part truth, part manipulation.
One night, as she tucked her son into bed, she whispered, “Mommy’s building your future, baby. Don’t you worry.”
But in her heart, she wasn’t sure if it was really about her son anymore — or about proving she could still win, no matter how much Amber tried to erase her.
Three months later, the house keys were in her hand. A cozy suburban home with a garden and a bright living room. Anthony hadn’t told Amber, of course. He’d said it was a “rental investment.”
Delicia came over the next day, eyes wide.
Delicia: “You really did it. You got him to buy you a house.”
Shayla (smiling proudly): “I told you — I don’t beg. I build.”
Delicia: “You think Amber will find out?”
Shayla: “Eventually. But by then, it’ll be too late.”
She looked out the window, watching her son play on the grass. The wind carried laughter — innocent, fragile, free.
For the first time in a long while, Shayla felt powerful again. She had lied, schemed, and manipulated, but the world had taught her one lesson: no one hands you stability — you take it.
But as the sun began to set, a message pinged on her phone.
Amber: “We need to talk. I know everything.”
Shayla’s smile faded. The glass of wine trembled in her hand. She turned to Delicia, who was staring at her in shock.
Delicia: “What are you gonna do now?”
Shayla’s eyes darkened, lips curling into a confident smirk.
Shayla: “What I always do, baby — play smarter.”
And as night fell, Shayla walked through her new home — the house she had demanded, the house she had earned, in her own way. But deep inside, she knew this war wasn’t over.
It was just beginning.
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