My Husband Bought A $1.5 Million Brothel With Our Kids’ Inheritance

Photo: Courtesy of the Author
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Some partners lay all their cards on the table, and others hide surprise Easter eggs in every nook and cranny of their life, buried deep enough to evade the wandering eye of a curious spouse. My husband happens to be the latter, and despite the unbelievable bombshells that have come to light in recent months, things only seem to be getting worse, with the stakes climbing ever higher.

Three months ago, I thought his cheating was bad. Then, cheating became spending 6-figures on his virtual mistresses through a variety of apps and sites like OnlyFans.

Oh, but it gets worse.

Finally, there was the admission of his new virtual sexual services business venture — which he tried to paint in an acceptable, opportunistic light.

At last, I thought my stroke of bad luck was turning around upon a new finding relayed by my private investigator: The hubs didn’t just have separate funds diverted from his business to his escorts; he had a portfolio of properties attributed to his company, with his name on the deed — not mine.

Make no mistake, these properties aren’t corporate offices. Instead, they’re residential bungalows, housing a lucky bunch of cam girls and hookers claiming stake to our children’s inheritance and my future alimony. Furious doesn’t encompass an ounce of the emotions I’m currently bottling.

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A word of warning for unsuspecting wives

Not everyone marries for money, but money does impact nearly every long-term relationship, like it or not. I won’t pretend my husband’s established career and financial success weren’t a few of the factors that dazzled me into an “I do” at 22. That said, 16 years later, I’m just now finding out how a secretive partner can use finances against an unsuspecting wife like myself — and it’s utterly terrifying.

You see, I thought our relationship was me, him, and our kids, all on one page with mutually aligned interests. In his mind, however, he’d carved out his own private anarchist island where spending, sex, and risky behavior know no bounds nor consequences.

The business that’s funded my husband’s lavish lifestyle has also given him an excuse for just about every decision he makes that needn’t concern me — no matter how big or expensive. Little did I know he’s been dabbling away our children’s inheritance on activities I’d consider far from “family-friendly”.

Buying a $1.5 million beach bungalow in the adjacent town without uttering a word to me or the kids is one thing. Allowing hookers, cam girls, and virtual sex workers to occupy it rent-free? That’s going a little too far.

Oh, and thanks to local squatter’s rights, those women just may own the $1.5M brothel outright. Talk about easy money.

The face-off with the sexual squatters vying for my husband’s $1.5M beach bungalow

Over the past week, I’ve learned more about “squatter’s rights” than I’d like to admit. The upshot? It doesn’t look good. My husband may as well have bought the $1.5M shack and handed over the keys to whichever stripper could claim a bedroom first. In fact, it feels as if that’s exactly what he’s done.

While the news of this property caught me about as off guard as the first time I came face-to-boobs with my husband’s mistress, this one was a harder pill to swallow. If you catch your spouse screwing a stranger in plain sight, there’s little denying the adulterous act. When you hear through the grapevine that your husband’s been housing rent-free prostitutes in a $1.5M bungalow down the street, you may need a little more proof than a phone call and some paperwork. At least I did.

So, I did the only logical thing I could do, contrary to the advice of my PI: I drove there myself to face-off with the sexual squatters in person.

The coward in me wouldn’t go inside. I couldn’t even knock on the door. I’ve probably circled the house a thousand times or more, but setting foot on the property feels too daunting.

There are women living there — and it’s more than a few. They don’t look how I’d expect; they aren’t dressed for a strip club or wearing black patent leather like the dominatrices I imagined. Peering through my car window from across the street, I broke down in tears.

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I wanted them to be ugly and trashy and easy to hate. I had the strongest desire to break through the front door and shame each and every one of them for living off my husband. For taking food out of my kids’ mouths. For waltzing right into a scenario they didn’t work for or deserve…

But I couldn’t. As much as I wanted to, that feeling of hatred and blame turned inwards the more I circled the bungalow. I started to realize everything I “hated” about them could be said of me, too.

I didn’t earn my marriage.

I didn’t deserve my husband’s lavish life.

I waltzed into a financially cushy situation that I never worked for, and perhaps this was my punishment.

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All this time, I’ve attempted to justify my value as a wife and a mother. As if that would be enough to warrant a happy marriage or financial security. In retrospect, I wonder if my husband sees me just as I saw these sexual squatters: a freeloader, unapologetically taking, without contributing a microscopic bit of value in return.

How is it that I’m the faithful spouse, homemaker, and caretaker, yet I feel like the most undeserving burden to everyone around?

Seeing those women carelessly, giddily walk in and out of that house, the sharpest pang reverberated through my gut. I love our kids, but sometimes I think they’re the only thing tethering me back to my broken situation. I wish I could just disappear, run away, and start a brand-new life.

I wish I could be one of those squatters confidently strolling through that bungalow, rather than the timid, insecure, worthless person I feel I am sitting in my car, sneakily peering in from across the street.

The scariest realization

The scariest thing I learned isn’t the fact that those women can claim possession of the $1.5M property and my husband can’t do a dang thing. That sucks, but that’s a minor glitch in the major disaster that is my life.

It isn’t even the fact that laying claim to the assets my husband has strategically placed under his business umbrella will prove a very expensive uphill legal battle. That’s unfortunate, too — but not surprising.

The scariest part has been the self-convicting realization that I’m the dead weight in my own family’s life. The more I think about my role — or lack thereof — the more I fantasize about leaving altogether. I hate that money makes me stay. I hate that anything makes me stay.

I hate that at 38, I feel like I haven’t contributed a shred of independent value to this world. Most of all, I hate that I’m too scared to take a stand and make a change…

Warning signs to ensure you don’t fall into a similar trap:

  • Transparency shouldn’t be optional; secrecy is the biggest downfall of any relationship, as far as I’ve seen
  • Marriage is a partnership, and that should mean joint decisions and purchases; two people making independent self-interested decisions is not the recipe for a successful unit
  • Kids are great, but they are an anchor; don’t have kids unless you’re ready to be anchored to the person with whom you had them long-term
  • A free ride doesn’t feel free when you’re the only one who isn’t paying; being the least valuable contributor to your family or relationship only makes you fearful and insecure — or at least, it has for me
  • Everything has a price, a consequence, and some level of karma; don’t be surprised when your “too good to be true” life turns upside down — perhaps that’s the price of living a life you never earned
  • Whoever said marriage is easy has probably never been married. That said, I’m understanding more and more why finances are the leading cause of divorce. My husband has done some despicable things lately, but the more I uncover, the more I come to believe money is the real root of all evil 

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Confessions of a Trophy Wife is a Medium blog detailing all the ups and downs of marrying for money. Follow the blog. 

This article was originally published at Medium. Reprinted with permission from the author.