My name is Audrey Lane, and until three months ago, I thought I had my life perfectly figured out. I had the ring, the house, the future. And I had Garrett — the man I believed was my forever.
And then, one Thursday night, I found him in bed with my best friend, Paige.
What he said that night still echoes through me like broken glass.
“What are you going to do? Cry?”
He smirked when he said it. That smirk was his first mistake.
Because I didn’t cry. I watched. Memorized. Every detail, every tremor of guilt that flickered through her eyes, every shred of arrogance in his. That moment, I decided crying wasn’t my language anymore. Revenge was.
The next morning, I moved out without a word. Garrett’s texts came first — short, defensive ones.
“You don’t understand.”
“It didn’t mean anything.”
“Can we talk?”
Then Paige tried.
“Please don’t hate me. It just happened.”
I didn’t respond. Not once. Silence was the only thing I had left, and it terrified them.
But behind that silence, I was planning.
Garrett and I shared a business — a small but growing event design company, A&G Concepts. I’d built it from the ground up while he networked, charmed clients, and played the visionary. He owned 49%. I owned 51%. He’d always said, “We’re partners, babe. Equal hearts, equal hands.”
He forgot to mention the knife in one of them.
So I decided to take everything back.
Step one was simple: act broken.
Two weeks after the betrayal, I called him. My voice trembled, the perfect mix of heartbreak and hesitation.
“Garrett, I don’t want to end things ugly. We built so much together. Maybe we can just… talk about separating the business cleanly?”
He jumped at it, probably thinking I wanted him back. “Of course, babe. You’ve got no idea how much I regret that night.”
I did. I had every idea.
We met at his favorite café, the one where we’d had our first date. I wore the dress he used to call his “weakness” — a red silk wrap that had once made him forget his own name. I smiled just enough. Let him think he still had power.
Over coffee, he leaned in, his voice dripping with fake remorse. “You know Paige ended it. Said she can’t handle the guilt.”
I tilted my head. “Poor thing.”
He didn’t notice the sarcasm. “We could still fix us, you know. I’ve missed you.”
That was his second mistake.
Step two: Paige.
Paige was easy. Guilt made her soft. When I invited her to meet, she cried before I even sat down. “Audrey, I don’t know what happened to me. I was stupid. I hate myself.”
I handed her a tissue and nodded gently. “We all make mistakes, Paige. I just need closure. From both of you.”
She sniffled. “Anything. Whatever you need.”
I smiled. “Perfect. Just sign this.”
It was a “forgiveness letter,” I told her. A symbolic thing for me — a way to let go, to move forward.
It wasn’t.
It was a legal affidavit, notarized and ready, acknowledging that she and Garrett had “misused company funds for personal purposes.” All true, in a way — Garrett had used the business credit card for their little getaways. I just needed her signature to make it official.
And she gave it.
Third mistake.
Step three was the storm.
Within a month, I’d quietly transferred A&G Concepts into my name entirely, citing “misconduct by a minority shareholder.” The evidence — the receipts, the signed statement — was airtight.
Garrett got the call from his lawyer on a Friday morning. By noon, I heard he’d trashed his office. By evening, he was at my doorstep.
He pounded the door until my neighbors peeked through curtains.
“Open the door, Audrey!”
I did. Slowly. Calmly.
“What did you do?” he hissed.
“I took what was mine,” I said. “And a little of what was yours.”
He stepped closer, the same smug fire lighting in his eyes. “You think you won? You’ll regret this.”
I smiled. “No, Garrett. I think you will.”
Two weeks later, I sent out invitations — digital ones, glossy gold against black.
The A&G Relaunch Gala.
Venue: The Belmont House.
Dress code: Formal.
Everyone from our business circle was invited. Including Garrett and Paige.
That night, the ballroom glittered with light and whispers. Paige came, looking pale, awkward. Garrett came too — late, drunk, desperate.
When I took the stage, the crowd fell silent.
“Thank you all for coming,” I began, voice steady. “Tonight isn’t just about a business. It’s about rebirth.”
Behind me, the projector lit up — slides of A&G’s new vision. Then, slide by slide, it shifted: screenshots of company credit charges, private messages between Garrett and Paige, timestamps, hotel receipts. The audience gasped.
Paige froze. Garrett’s face drained white.
“Transparency,” I said, “is the foundation of any great partnership. Don’t you agree?”
Security escorted them out while the guests clapped politely, unsure whether to laugh or applaud.
But the real ending didn’t happen that night.
It came two months later, when I got a letter.
No return address. Just my name. Inside was a single sheet of paper — and a photo.
Paige’s red Mustang, crushed like an accordion against a guardrail.
The letter read:
“She couldn’t live with it. But I can. See you soon.”
No signature. But I didn’t need one.
Garrett always kept his promises — especially the bad ones.
The next few weeks, I started seeing signs. A shadow behind my car in the rearview. The scent of his cologne near my doorstep. Once, a photo appeared in my mailbox: me, taken from behind at the grocery store.
The police found nothing.
One evening, I returned home to find my front door slightly ajar. Inside, nothing was stolen — but on my bed lay a single item: the ring he’d proposed with.
And beside it, a note.
“You win.”
No threats. Just those two words.
For days, I waited for the next shoe to drop. It never did. Garrett disappeared completely — no cards, no traces, no sightings.
Some said he fled the country. Others whispered darker theories.
But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I swear I can still smell his cologne — faint, just behind me — and hear his voice whispering that question, the one that started it all:
“What are you going to do? Cry?”
I smile every time.
Because now, I know the answer.