I’m the real housewife who didn’t take the TV deal. And no, my cheating husband doesn’t need to know about this “silly” hobby.

Hand-crafted and owned by yours truly, with a bit of help from my live-in assistant. Thanks, doll.

A 7,000 square foot modern mansion shouldn’t feel like a prison — yet here I am, sneaking away to another “girl’s brunch” at The Montage to write this bio. The security cameras my husband had installed in every room don’t exactly foster the most liberating environment for creative pursuits…and after a few recent developments in our marital life, I’d like to take back a bit of the freedom I’ve relinquished over the past sixteen years.

Life before the scandal

I compartmentalize my life as “Before Hubby” (BH) and “After Hubby” (AH). Before hubby, I was an aspiring fashion designer, pursuing a design and merchandising…

Mary Jane millionaires and their McLaren may be my newest allies in the biggest scandal to rock this small beach town.

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I cruised slowly down the narrow road, grateful that a white Bentley would blend in seamlessly among the black and white convertibles — and the odd SUV — that peppered the Corona del Mar flower streets. It was my third time circling the block, peering into the same Italian-style townhome’s garden-embellished entryway, holding my breath and telepathically willing the very movement I didn’t want to see.

“I’m not crazy. Or paranoid. This is normal. This is what anyone would do. I’m just curious…and more often than not, my curiosity tends to be spot-on.”

Just then, a black car pulled up…

And my daughter’s trust-fund boyfriend might hold the key to the scandal out front.

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$2 million can buy a lot of things — but spotty WiFi shouldn’t be one of them. I ascended to the townhome’s empty third-floor office, hoping the elevation would result in a few more bars. No such luck — but somehow, my phone’s calendar broke through the poor connection to ping me the reminder I didn’t need.

The unfamiliar name flashed across my screen with a camouflaged agenda. Unlike my husband, I wasn’t veiling my digital encounters to conceal extramarital affairs from his wandering glance; instead, I was shielding my identity from the very person whose help I sought out…

Now I’m worried he’s racing me to the judge’s stand with divorce papers in hand and my replacement waiting in the wings.

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At 39, I never imagined I’d do the “walk of shame” — especially not in front of $17 million waterfront mansions, while their likely more functional inhabitants kept a watchful eye over their yachts docked across the way at Balboa Island. Yet, here I was, a stranger to this part of my neighborhood, acting like a suspicious spy casing the mega-rich’s estates while reeling from the morning’s shocking events.

Tourists and criminals peered into these homes looking for easy-to-grab valuables, 8-figure views, and vulnerable entry points. I, on the other hand, squinted through the narrow sheets of exposed glass looking…

A jailbait romance in our driveway piles yet another scandal onto our increasingly dysfunctional family.

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A blinding gleam of holographic purple metal flashed in the sun as I entered the wrought iron gates to our home. This was a Lamborghini that didn’t belong to my husband — as far as I knew. Though, a clandestine luxury sports car shopping spree to fill his time during my Rancho Santa Fe exile would be the least of the surprises he’s been dishing out. As I pulled in, expecting to see one of his country club golf buddies, here to show off his new wheels, my heart nearly stopped.

The hair flowing out the driver’s side window was…

But my shrink thinks I’m the crazy one.

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My cheeks flashed a blazing crimson as urine soaked the rug before me, spraying pale yellow droplets onto the round-toed heels across from me. The heels didn’t flinch or budge as the moisture sank in. I dove towards my purse, rescuing the manila folder that promised to grant me my freedom — and the millions my husband had been subtly siphoning away — before urine mist could taint the evidence. …

Unfaithful partners always have ulterior motives.

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Last night, I was in the middle of a hectic escrow process for my mom’s new condo while attempting to quell the friction between my sparring parents; today, I’d been cast away on a friend’s private jet against my will, my protest ignored. When somebody wants you gone, there’s often a nice, mutually agreeable way to broach the topic and a much harsher, more direct, less diplomatic way. …

With his mistress as my mom’s new neighbor, my impending divorce just got a lot more complicated.

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It’s not every day you walk into a condo showing for your aging mother and instead, find yourself entrenched in a den of inescapable erotica. I stared at the anatomically-inspired sculptures that adorned the marble countertop with their carnal poses, hoping my mom failed to notice the sexual undertones laced into every piece of kitchen décor. Our realtor waved away the friction as he walked us through the townhome, up the stairs, through indoor-outdoor balconies, and up to the rooftop, where we could see the roofs of colorful mansions for miles.

As we made our way into the bedroom, we…

In marriage, infidelity, and million-dollar scandals, there are no coincidences.

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I’m not a stalker — I swear. When I need someone followed, I hire a private investigator for that. However, as a wife — and one who’s recently uncovered a web of marital transgressions that spans dozens of mistresses and millions of dollars — I occasionally let my curiosity take me places I probably shouldn’t go. Like back to the $1.5 million brothel full of my husband’s cam girl squatters.

While I’d like to credit myself with the wisdom to start taking my husband’s face-saving explanations with a few grains of salt and another cup of pepper, I failed to…

I thought my husband’s million-dollar brothel was bad, but a frantic phone call from my mom sent even greater shockwaves.

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When I left my parents’ middle-class nest in exchange for my husband’s much flashier 8-figure business-owning, jet-setting lifestyle, I knew I was in for a jarring awakening. I didn’t necessarily sign up for his $460k OnlyFans scandal or his secret multi-million-dollar real estate portfolio to hide his many mistresses, but perhaps that’s the price I pay. Expecting the eccentric should have been in the “trophy wife instruction manual”.

My parents, on the other hand, hail from a much more conventional background, working normal 9 to 5 jobs and carrying a 30-year mortgage that’s probably worth less than my husband’s cheapest…

Confessions of a Trophy Wife

I’m the trophy wife you don’t see on reality TV, and this is my unfiltered, unapologetic life. Ask Me Anything: confessionsofatrophywife@gmail.com

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