By the time Ethan called that evening, confused about his frozen company card, I was already several steps ahead.
“Guess you’ll have to cover your next hotel stay yourself,” I said, and hung up.
For the first time since opening that bedroom door, I smiled. He thought he’d destroyed me. He had no idea what destruction really looked like.
Three days later, after countless missed calls, Ethan showed up at my apartment. Clean-shaven, polished, holding daisies — my favorite. The same flowers he’d brought the day he proposed.
“Lena, it was a mistake,” he pleaded, his tone dripping with fake remorse. “Chloe means nothing. It just… happened.”
I tilted my head. “You mean you accidentally slept with my best friend?”
He stiffened. “You don’t understand — I was drunk—”
“Then maybe stop drinking,” I cut in. “Oh, and Ethan? Check your company accounts.”
The color drained from his face. “What did you do?”
“I did what any good business partner would do,” I said, handing him a folder of documents — revoked access, frozen funds, pending audits. “You wanted to play games. I’m just keeping score.”
He flipped through the pages, panic rising. “You can’t do this.”
“I already did.”
He slammed the door behind him, shaking the walls. I sat down, trembling from the rush of adrenaline and heartbreak. Revenge didn’t erase betrayal, but it gave me back control.
