Trapping The Cheater With Design Chapter 1

For four years, my boyfriend Wesley never once brought up marriage. He never even took me home for the holidays to meet his parents.

The day before I planned to sit him down and finally demand clarity about our future, my interior design firm landed a massive whale of a contract.

A sprawling, floor-to-ceiling glass penthouse in the Gold Coast.

The client, a woman in her late fifties with a Botox-smoothed forehead and a designer bag resting on her lap, practically glowed with pride.

"This is going to be my son’s marital home," she announced, waving a hand through the empty, sunlit space. "The budget is limitless. I only care that my boy and his new bride are happy. I actually bought this property two years ago, just waiting for the day he’d finally settle down."

I smiled, the practiced, warm smile of a professional, and nodded as she eagerly dug her phone out of her purse.

"Here, look at their engagement photos. Don't they look absolutely perfect together?"

The moment the screen came into focus, my smile froze. The muscles in my face went rigid, turning to stone.

Staring back at me was Wesley. And wrapped in his arms, wearing a stunning ivory gown and a radiant smile, was my best friend, Jasmine.

So, this was Wesley’s mother.

Mrs. Wright was still talking, her voice a distant hum over the roaring in my ears. "The wedding is set for six months from now. They’ll move right in after the honeymoon."

I felt the blood drain from my extremities, rushing backward, leaving me cold and hollowed out.

It wasn't that Wesley didn't want to get married. He just didn't want to marry "me".

That night, sitting in the dark of my apartment, I picked up my phone and dialed my mother.

"Mom," I said, my voice eerily calm, stripped of all the rebellion I’d harbored for years. "That introduction you wanted to make? The family you wanted to align with? I'll meet him."

I took a shaky breath. "Wesley and I are done."

* * *

The second I hung up the phone, a text from Wesley lit up my screen.

"Swamped with the new project at the firm tonight. Going to have to crash at the office. Love you."

I didn’t text back. Instead, I walked over to the desk and opened the sleek laptop he had left behind.

His passcode hadn't changed in four years. It was still my birthday.

The moment the screen flared to life, a notification badge bounced on his messaging app.

It was, of course, from Jasmine.

"You smoothed things over with Margot, right? We’re going ring shopping tonight, and then dinner at my parents’ place. Make sure she doesn’t suspect anything."

Even knowing the depth of their betrayal, seeing those words typed out felt like a physical blow. A sharp, localized pain right behind my ribs.

My breath hitched. I scrolled up.

For two entire years, the messages never stopped. A continuous, unbroken thread of intimacy.

Even during those weeks when Wesley had gone on "overseas business trips" and claimed his cell service was too spotty to call me, he had been texting Jasmine constantly.

I scrolled further back to last month. To the week I was in the hospital, recovering from a terrifyingly severe bleeding ulcer. As I lay in a sterile room, hooked up to an IV, they had been finalizing their wedding timeline.

"Let’s aim for the end of the year," Jasmine had written. "My parents checked the calendar for good dates."

"Perfect," Wesley replied. "We’ll do the aesthetic exactly how you want it. Let’s book the engagement shoot for next week."

It was only at the very end of that exchange that my best friend bothered to add:

"By the way, is Margot okay?"

"She’ll live," Wesley had typed back. "Once the heavy painkillers wear off and she’s asleep, I’ll tell her I have an emergency at the office and come over to your place."

I stared at the glowing pixels, laughing so hard that hot, angry tears spilled down my cheeks.

I had thought we were a family. The two people I trusted most in the world, treating me like an absolute fool.

With trembling hands, I exported every chat log, every digital receipt, every venmo transaction, directly to a hidden cloud drive.

A text from my assistant popped up on my phone.

"Hey Margot, are you still joining for the site measurement tomorrow morning?"

I wiped the cooling tears from my jawline. I typed a single word.

"Yes."

When I arrived at the penthouse the next morning, Wesley’s mother was already there.

She was frowning at a tablet, but her face lit up with relief when she saw me.

"Oh, Margot, thank god. Please, come look at these mood boards," she complained, pulling me over. "I keep telling them the first option is so much more elegant, but my future daughter-in-law insists the second one is what 'young people' like these days. It looks so cheap and empty to me."

I glanced at the second option. It was exactly Jasmine's taste: organic modern, lots of curved boucle sofas, creamy whites, and minimalist plaster. Even with high-end materials, the labor and margins were relatively low.

The first option was all heavy mahogany, traditional wainscoting, and oppressive, dark-wood elegance—the kind of dated luxury that older, conservative wealth gravitated toward.

I offered a soft, reassuring smile and pulled a mock-up from my portfolio—one I had stayed up until 3 AM rendering.

Floor-to-ceiling dark walnut paneling. Layered, ornate coffered ceilings. Heavy, intricately carved cherry-wood built-ins.

It was dark, suffocating, dated, and astronomically expensive.

Mrs. Wright’s eyes went wide with absolute delight.

"Yes! Yes, this is exactly the vibe!" she gasped. "Grand. Dignified. It makes the space look like it has real heritage! Margot, you understand my vision perfectly."

I kept my voice gentle, feeding her ego with a silver spoon.

"You just have an incredibly timeless eye, Mrs. Wright," I murmured. "Those minimalist internet trends? They'll look dated in three years. But this? Custom solid walnut retains its value. It demands respect. When your extended family comes to visit, they'll immediately sense the pedigree of the home. Add a few antique oil paintings, and it will be breathtaking."

She was beaming, entirely hooked.

"You are so right, Margot. We are going with this one." She rolled her eyes dramatically. "I kept telling Wesley that his fiancée has such small-minded taste. They aren't even married yet, and she’s already demanding he hand over his paychecks to her."

I paused.

That explained why Jasmine had been sporting a new Celine bag and Cartier hoops for the last three months, while Wesley claimed he couldn't afford to go halves on our usual grocery delivery.

I let a look of professional hesitation cross my face. "But, Mrs. Wright, since it "is" their marital home... shouldn't we get your son and his fiancée to sign off on this?"

She let out a harsh scoff and pulled out her phone. "I am draining my retirement accounts to pay for this place. I already let them pick the neighborhood. You think I don't have the final say on the walls?"

Without another word, she dialed Wesley.

"Your fiancée’s taste is far too pedestrian," she barked the second he answered. "I don't trust it. You two are always claiming you're so busy with work anyway, right? Perfect. I am taking over the design."

Wesley hesitated. Through the receiver, I could faintly hear Jasmine’s whiny protests in the background. "I told you we should have hired our own contractor, what is your mother doing..."

"Shut up!" Wesley hissed at her, before rushing back to the phone. "Mom, Jasmine didn't mean it like that..."

Mrs. Wright let out a cold, sharp laugh. "Is there another way to mean it? You tell that girl that if she expects to marry into this family, she learns to do things my way."