My Husband Took His Female Colleague to My Inherited Lake House for ‘Business Trips’ — But He Had No Idea I’d Already Installed Cameras
I never imagined installing hidden cameras in my own lake house. But when my husband Luke’s “business trips” grew suspicious and an old neighbor reported seeing a tall man unlocking the door, my instincts screamed betrayal.
For seven years, our marriage seemed perfect—synced careers, weekend getaways, dreams of starting a family. I was a senior editor in Chicago, buried in manuscripts and deadlines, collapsing exhausted each night. Luke’s smiles and murmurs of pride masked his convenience in my distraction.
Two years ago, I inherited Grandma’s cozy Wisconsin lake house, my childhood sanctuary of fireflies and peach cobbler. I made it clear: mine alone. Luke visited once to paint and clean; no key, no solo trips—or so I thought.
Six months ago, his “client expansions” multiplied. I barely questioned, enjoying quiet evenings with my dog. Then Mr. Jensen called: a man with groceries, not maintenance.
Luke claimed Philadelphia that weekend. I drove up unannounced. The house smelled fresh, not musty. Clues chilled me: coral-lipstick wine glass, unfamiliar blanket, hospital-cornered bed, blonde hair in the drain, takeout for two with Luke’s favorites.
Heart pounding, I bought cameras—front door, back, living room shelf. “For thieves,” I lied to myself.
Luke returned, spinning lies about room service. Another trip announced: Minnesota.
Motion alert: Luke entering with a giggling blonde. “Welcome to paradise, babe.”
No tears. I planned.
Pretending normalcy, I trapped him: “Let’s skip work—romantic lake weekend.” I “spoke” to his colleague; trip “rescheduled.”
He fidgeted en route. Post-lunch, I played the footage: them dancing in my sanctuary.
“Sandra, I—”
“Save it. You stole keys, lied, defiled my haven.” Divorce papers ready. “Sign by Monday, or footage to your boss—and her husband.”
He left defeated.
That night, under Grandma’s quilt on the dock, sunset gilding the lake, I felt empowered. The house isn’t the treasure—it’s knowing my worth, trusting my gut. Protect your peace; it’s your birthright.
