After the divorce, my husband walked away empty-handed, but in less than six months, after just one phone call, my ex-husband transferred 100 million pesos to me.
“The day we signed the divorce papers, he smirked and told me to be grateful he was letting me leave quietly. I didn’t get the house, the car— not even custody of my child. Six months later, one phone call from me made him transfer 100 million pesos, not a single peso less.”
I am Althea, 32 years old, and I used to be an accountant in a small private company in Makati. I met Ramon when I was 27, back when he was running a chain of mobile accessory shops across Quezon City and Manila. At the time, I thought I was lucky to have found a talented, mature man. Ramon was five years older, charming, articulate, and knew exactly how to make women feel special. He once told me:
“Marry me— you’ll only ever be happy. Women who think too much about money never manage to keep a man.”
I foolishly believed I would be the exception.
Three years after the wedding, I quit my job to stay home and raise our child. Everything depended on Ramon’s income. The townhouse in BGC wasn’t under my name, and the savings account definitely wasn’t either. The car had been bought before our marriage. Every piece of property had conveniently slipped into that legal grey area where the law couldn’t reach.
Then one day, I discovered Ramon was having an affair— not with one woman, but with several. From a secretary in Ortigas to a fresh intern working in Taguig, he had a list. I confronted him loudly. He coldly replied:
“If you want a divorce, sign the papers. The house is mine, the car is mine. And you can’t even afford to raise a child. Let me take him.”
I was so shocked I couldn’t even speak. I had spent my youth believing in love and sacrifice. But the court ruled exactly as he predicted: the house was separate property, the car was bought before the marriage, and custody went to the parent with financial capability.
I left with a few clothes, a bit of savings, and a broken heart.
For a while, I moved back to Davao, living with my parents. I cried every night. But one day, my mother looked straight into my eyes and said:
“Instead of crying, why don’t you stand up? You used to be the top student in school. Are you really going to let that man laugh at you now?”
Her words hit me like a slap— but a necessary one. I began studying again. I enrolled in an online digital marketing course, then applied for freelance work. At first, I wrote content on contract, then handled Facebook/Instagram ads for a clothing shop in Cebu. The money wasn’t much, but I felt myself moving forward.
Three months later, I met Lara, my old college friend who was now working in the tech industry in Pasig. She was shocked to learn I was divorced. She introduced me to a small startup group where women who had been hurt were trying to rebuild their lives. I learned a lot— especially about digitizing personal data, tracking transactions, and digital forensics.
While browsing my old phone by accident, I found messages and photos Ramon had sent to his girlfriends. And what appeared on the screen left me stunned…
There were extremely sensitive details— mentions of GST-type tax evasion, fake invoices, and off-the-book store records.
My heart pounded. My accountant instincts kicked in. I suddenly remembered: back when we were newly married, I handled some of his basic bookkeeping. I still had old Excel files, statements, and even missing tax invoices.
It hit me: I may have walked away penniless after the divorce, but if I had evidence of illegal business practices, I could force him to his knees.
I began gathering documents— every WhatsApp chat (with time-hash), exported emails, and compared them with financial reports he had submitted to tax authorities. Everything pointed to one thing: Ramon had evaded millions in taxes— from undeclared employee salaries to hidden corporate income.
I showed the documents to Lara. She was shocked.
“This can be reported not just to the Bureau of Internal Revenue, but also to the Anti-Cybercrime Group and the Economic Crime Division.”
I didn’t want him thrown in jail. I didn’t need much. I just wanted justice— to show him what losing everything felt like.
I told him to call me without telling him why. When he heard my voice, he laughed:
“Did you dial the wrong number?”
I calmly sent him a PDF file. It contained a summary of all the evidence I had— photos of fake invoices, transfer histories between shell companies, and snippets of messages exchanged with his mistresses. I added only one sentence:
“Transfer 100 million pesos to me within 24 hours, or I will send this file to BIR, the tax intelligence unit, and the Economic Crime Division.”
Ten minutes later, he called back, his voice trembling:
“What do you want? Is this blackmail?”
I smiled.
“No. I just wanted to remind you— there’s always a price to pay. Either in money… or in freedom.”
Twenty-four hours later, 100,000,000 pesos appeared in my account— transferred from a subsidiary company under Ramon’s cousin in Caloocan. No message, no apology. Just money— the price of the life he had crushed.
I didn’t spend any of it on myself. I sent some to my parents in Davao. Some I donated to the startup fund Lara created for single women in Pasig. The rest I kept in the bank— not to spend, but to remind myself:
I fell… but I did not break.
I never imagined I would take revenge. But sometimes life requires a counterattack to remind people of their limits. Ramon didn’t go to jail, but I knew he would never dare disrespect another woman again— especially not the ex-wife he once assumed had nothing in her hands.