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At eight months pregnant, I discovered my husband had completely drained my $48,000 emergency pregnancy fund. I checked his phone’s GPS and found out he was in Hawaii, chilling on a beach resort with his female co-workers. I booked a flight, flew straight there, and confronted him in front of them all. He just smirked, sipping a cocktail and saying: “A man has physiological needs; a pregnant wife at home is completely helpless to stop me.” He returned home days later sunburnt and laughing, but the locks were changed, and signed divorce papers were taped to the door of a house that now legally belonged to a complete stranger.

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him to think he still had access.

Then, I called Marcus Thorne, a real estate broker known for closing deals in hours, not weeks.

The house was a four-bedroom colonial near the coast, a piece of architectural history I had meticulously restored. Its value had doubled since I’d bought it. Within two hours, Marcus had a lead.

“A tech investor,” Marcus told continue reading …

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