I married my wife when I was still a struggling office clerk in Mumbai, earning barely enough to get by. My wife, Meera, was a gentle preschool teacher whose salary just about covered our monthly expenses. After over two years of marriage, we hadn’t even been able to afford a new refrigerator—let alone dream of owning a house.

Then one day, something unexpected happened.

My boss — a powerful, wealthy woman in her 60s, known in our company as “Madam Kapoor” — made me an outrageous offer.

“Make me happy,” she said, “and I’ll make your life comfortable.”

She didn’t ask for love. Just a few dinners, weekend getaways, and nights spent together two or three times a week. In return, she offered to pay me ₹250,000 a month, transferred without delay and no questions asked.

At first, I was disgusted.

But then came the luxury shirts, the new smartphone, and a savings account that seemed to grow by the day. I started justifying it to myself:

“I’m not hurting anyone. I’m just trading time for money.”

Each night after being intimate with Meera, I’d fake a stomach ache or pretend I had an emergency office call. Then I’d sneak out to meet Madam Kapoor in some hotel suite.

Eventually, I even took on a few “extra clients” — lonely older women I’d met through connections. Each night felt like a month’s paycheck.

I thought I had mastered the devil’s game.

But then came the twist.

One weekend night, I had just stepped out of a hotel after “entertaining” a new client — a friend of Madam Kapoor — when suddenly, someone emerged from the shadows, camera phone pointed straight at my face.

“You really thought you could hide this from your wife forever?”

I froze in shock.

The person behind the camera… was Meera.

The emotional climax:

With trembling hands, she showed me the video. In it, I was shirtless, laughing with Madam Kapoor, flaunting a savings certificate she had just gifted me — ₹500,000 in my name.

I stammered:

“Meera, I… I only did this for our future…”

She didn’t cry.

She simply pulled out two documents. The first — divorce papers, already signed. The second — a contract.

“This says you leave everything: the furniture, the motorbike, and every rupee in the savings account. As for you… go wherever you want. I don’t care.”

I shouted:

“You can’t do this to me! You don’t have the right!”

She gave a calm, almost amused smile:

“You slept with women for money. Now you lose your wife because of money. Fair enough, isn’t it?”