When the judge’s gavel struck the block, James leaned back in his chair like a man crowned king. He grinned — that same wide, polished smile I used to mistake for confidence — and ran his fingers over the stack of signed papers that gave him everything he’d demanded: the house, the cars, the joint accounts, even the furniture we’d chosen together when love still felt like a partnership.
On paper, I’d lost it all. In reality, I’d just set him up for the fall he’d built with his own greed.
I stood, zipped my bag, and let out a quiet laugh. The bailiff looked up, confused. James didn’t notice — he was too busy basking in his supposed victory. He had no idea that the ink drying on those documents was also sealing his own trap.
The Rise of a Narcissist
I met James ten years ago, back when I was still confusing ambition with arrogance. He was magnetic — all charm, sharp suits, and rehearsed promises. He didn’t dream of love; he dreamed of owning success. A bigger house, a faster car, a life worth showing off.
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