The Ultimate Revenge

Hades’s asshole doesn’t even begin to cover the scale of how furious I am right now. It is a completely inadequate measurement for the sheer, volcanic eruption of rage currently tearing through my veins, threatening to consume me from the inside out.

I violently yank my hands out of Katya’s soft grasp, the sudden movement sharp and jarring enough to cut off the fragile warmth she was trying to offer. The skin on my knuckles tingles from the friction, but I barely register it. My chest is heaving, my lungs burning as if the air in our living room has suddenly turned to ash. I look down at Kat, who is sitting on our mismatched velvet couch with a expression that is far too calm, far too calculating for my liking.

In this exact microsecond, my anger is so hot, so blindingly intense, that I actually consider reaching out and shoving her right off the cushions. My hands twitch with the urge, my mind momentarily painting a picture of her tumbling onto the floor in a heap of limbs and PR spreadsheets. But then my eyes catch the sharp, heavy wooden edge of our coffee table, situated just a few inches away from her knees.

I wince internally. I’m mad. I am absolutely, unequivocally livid. But I’m not mad enough to break my best friend's neck.

Yet.

“I cannot believe you!” I shout, the words tearing out of my throat, raw and vibrating with a decade’s worth of accumulated frustration.

I shoot up from the couch so fast my knees lock, and I storm toward the narrow hallway leading to my bedroom. I need space. I need walls between us. I need to be in a room where the air isn't thick with her outrageous, manipulative, boundary-crossing proposals.

But Katya, being Katya, doesn't let me escape that easily. The heavy patter of her bare feet on the hardwood floor tells me she is right behind me, refusing to let me have the last word.

“Ade, stop! You are completely overreacting!” she yells back, her voice echoing off the framed prints lining our hallway. “It’s not even a bad thing! If you actually stopped to think for a single second, you’d see this is a brilliant opportunity!”

Her words only fuel the fire. I stop dead in my tracks, spin around on my heel, and whip my left slipper off my foot. It’s a plush, stupidly oversized thing, but right now, it feels like a lethal projectile. With a low growl, I hurl it directly at her head.

Katya, however, possesses the terrifyingly sharp reflexes of someone who spent her childhood playing high-speed catch with her dad. She doesn't even blink. She simply tilts her head to the left, and the slipper sails past her ear, thudding harmlessly against the wall behind her before dropping to the floor.

She glares at me, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. She steps forward and points a perfectly manicured finger right at my nose, treating me like a misbehaving golden retriever puppy that just chewed up her favorite pair of heels.

“Give me one valid, logical reason why you are so angry right now,” she demands, her voice dropping into that authoritative tone she uses on stubborn clients. “Give me one good reason, Adeline, and I swear to God I will back off and never bring this up again.”

I hate when she does this. I absolutely loathe it. She knows exactly how to put me on the spot, wrapping her arguments in layers of clean-cut logic that make my emotional, exhausted brain short-circuit. She corners me, wait-lists my feelings, and then steamrolls me until I find myself nod-agreeing to whatever wild scheme she’s cooked up.

But not today.

“I just broke up with Brooks!” I scream, my voice cracking under the weight of the confession. “My ten-year relationship just went up in flames, Kat! Ten days ago, I thought I was getting married. Now, I’m a joke. I am practically grieving, and you want to throw me into a fake-relationship circus!”

“Access denied,” Katya says instantly, her voice crisp and entirely unaffected by my emotional outburst. She doesn't even pause. She starts ticking her fingers off one by one, raising them right in front of my face. “One: Brooks is a certified, card-carrying piece of human garbage, and you know it. Two: you are supposed to be moving on, not wrapping yourself in a blanket of self-pity. And three: that absolute audacity-machine of a man didn't just dump you—he got engaged to someone else immediately, and then had the sheer, unadulterated gall to invite you to his wedding.”

She steps closer, crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes bore into mine, filled with a mixture of fierce protectiveness and utter exasperation. “And let's not forget the cherry on top of this shit sundae. It’s a couples-only wedding cruise. In the middle of the ocean. Where you will be trapped with him, his new perfect bride, and all your old friends who are undoubtedly whispering pitying nonsense behind your back.”

She stares at me, waiting for my defense. “Adeline Louise Beaumont. You cannot seriously tell me you’re planning on sitting in this apartment while he lives out his happily ever after at your expense.”

The mention of my full name, combined with the brutal, unvarnished truth of her words, makes something snap inside me. The rage bubbles over, hot and uncontrollable. I rip off my second slipper and launch it with everything I’ve got.

This time, my aim is true. The slipper flies straight and true, landing with a satisfying, soft *whack* right against her shoulder.

“You do not call me that!” I fume, my chest heaving as I stand there, barefoot and trembling on the cold floorboards. “And it’s the principle of the thing, Katya! You are always going on and on about how controlling Brooks was. You spent ten years pointing out every single boundary he crossed, telling me how he managed my life. But look at you! You’re being just as bad! You kept his engagement a secret from me. You let me find out in the most humiliating way possible, and then you had the nerve to suggest me for some high-profile PR stunt without even asking me first!”

“Don’t you dare try to guilt-trip me,” Katya fires back, her professional composure finally cracking as her own temper flares. She steps forward, kicking my second slipper out of her way. “I didn't sign you up for shit, Adeline! I suggested an idea to my agency. I pitched a strategy, and then I came straight home to talk to you about it. And do not—do not ever—compare me to that manipulative, good-for-nothing lowlife.”

She pauses, taking a deep, stabilizing breath. The anger in her eyes doesn't fade, but it settles into something heavy, serious, and undeniable. She pins me with a look so intense that I find myself unable to look away, my defensive walls starting to crumble under the sheer gravity of her gaze.

“Pray tell, Ade, what is your grand plan here?” she asks, her voice dropping into a quiet, lethal calm. “He is hosting a month-long wedding cruise. I know you. I have known you since we were kids. You are too polite, too conditioned to keep the peace, and too terrified of looking like a broken, bitter ex to decline that invitation. You will RSVP yes. You will pack your bags, walk onto that boat completely alone, and you will spend four weeks torturing yourself. You’ll watch him whisper in his new girl’s ear, you’ll pretend to smile, and then you’ll come home and expect me to sweep up the shattered pieces of your soul.”

I open my mouth to argue, to throw some defensive shield up, but no words come out. I press my lips together into a tight, miserable line.

She’s right. God help me, she’s entirely, devastatingly right. I would have gone. I would have forced myself to endure the torture just to prove I was "fine," even if it killed me.

Katya exhales a long, slow breath, the tension leaving her shoulders as she realizes she has won the logical argument. She always does.

“Look,” she says, her tone softening slightly. “I’m not going to force you into anything. I would never do that. But if you agree to this idea... if you actually trust me on this... not only will you have a gorgeous, high-profile date by your side for the entire duration of that godforsaken trip, but you will get to rub your happiness directly into his smug, arrogant face.”

She steps closer, leaning in until her eyes are gleaming with a wicked, mischievous light. “Just imagine it, Ade. His ex-fiancée... walking down the deck, looking absolutely stunning, hand-in-hand with his absolute favorite hockey player.”

I freeze. The words hang in the air, cold and heavy.

*Reid Harrington.*

I don't need to be a PR manager, and I certainly don't need to be a mind reader, to understand the sheer, seismic impact of that name.

Brooks was obsessed with Reid Harrington. "Obsessed" didn't even cover the half of it; it was a pathological, borderline-unhealthy fixation. Back when we were in college, Brooks’s entire mood, his self-worth, and his identity seemed to hinge on the hockey star's career.

I close my eyes, and suddenly, a memory from sophomore year rushes back, vivid and suffocatingly detailed.

It was a chilly autumn afternoon, and the campus was buzzing with excitement because Reid Harrington had made a brief, unannounced appearance at the local rink. Brooks had spent hours trying to get close to him, eventually managing to score a brief, two-minute conversation near his car.

Later that day, when I met Brooks in the parking lot, I was exhausted from a grueling three-hour biology exam. I opened the passenger door of his beloved, overly polished car and slid inside, sinking into the leather seat with a sigh of relief.

Before I could even pull the door shut, Brooks had literally screamed at me. He grabbed my arm, his grip tight enough to leave bruises, and yanked me out of the vehicle.

*“What the fuck are you doing, Adeline?”* he had roared, his face flushed with an ugly, mottled rage. *“Get the hell out of that seat! Reid sat there three hours ago! He sat right there, and you’re going to mess up the good luck charm he left behind!”*

I thought he was joking. I actually laughed, a nervous, confused sound, and tried to get back in. But he slammed the door shut, locking me out in the cold. We had a massive, screaming fight right there in the gravel parking lot, with people staring at us.

That evening, Brooks’s team lost their match. When he came back to our dorm, he completely lost it. He threw his gear against the wall, got right in my face, and yelled for over an hour. He told me it was my fault. He claimed my "stupid, useless female energy" had ruined the luck Reid had left in the car, screaming that he *“couldn't have a girl who couldn't fucking listen to a simple instruction.”*

The memory leaves a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth, cold and sharp. I remember sitting on the floor of Kat’s dorm room that night, sobbing into her shoulder, wondering what I had done wrong. I remember whispering through my tears, *Why doesn't he just date Reid if he means so much to him?*

Katya is watching me closely now. The triumphant, mischievous grin is still playing on her lips, but I can see the underlying anger in her eyes—the lingering, protective fury she has carried on my behalf for a decade. She knows exactly what that memory does to me. She knows the scars Brooks left behind.

Without another word, she turns around and heads toward the apartment door. She knows I need space to cool down, to process the sheer audacity of what she’s suggesting, and she’s smart enough to know that pushing me right now will only make me dig my heels in.

She pauses at the doorway, her hand resting on the brass handle. She glances back over her shoulder.

“Think about it all you want, Ade,” she says, her voice quiet but carrying a strange, electric weight. “But I’m having dinner with Reid tonight. It’s at that small Thai place down the street, the one with the private booths.”

She pauses, letting the detail sink in. “I’m not pressuring you. I swear I’m not. But if you’re okay with this... if you want to take back your life... this could be your first official public appearance. I can call Reid right now and tell him to leave the sunglasses and the face mask at home. We can let the cameras see you two together. Dress up, Ade. But only if it’s what you actually want, okay?”

Her eyes soften, the sharp, calculating PR executive melting away to reveal the girl who has held my hand through every heartbreak since we were seven years old. “I love you, Adeline. Even when it doesn't feel like it. Even when I’m being a massive pain in your ass.”

Then, she opens the door and slips out, shutting it softly behind her.

And finally, for the first time in what feels like days, I can actually draw a full, deep breath.

***

I have never been good at makeup.

I sit on the edge of my unmade bed, staring at my phone screen as a bright, overly cheerful beauty influencer on YouTube explains the "simple, foolproof" method for applying mascara. The sheer complexity of it—priming, curling, tight-lining—makes me want to melt directly into my mattress and never get up.

I can count on one of Katya’s perfectly manicured hands the number of times I have actually worn a full face of makeup in my entire life. And every single one of those times was during a secret night out with her—outings that Brooks knew absolutely nothing about.

On those rare nights, Katya would lock our apartment door, sit me down in front of her lighted vanity, tilt my chin up with her fingers, and whisper, *“Let’s pretty you up, babe.”*

I know I could walk out of my room right now, find her, and ask for her help. I know that if I did, the lingering tension between us would instantly evaporate, replaced by our usual comfortable banter. But I don't want to. Not yet. This feels like something I need to do on my own. A personal declaration of independence.

Brooks hated when I wore makeup.

He used to lecture me for hours about how "natural beauty" was the only thing a respectable woman should care about. But it wasn't about appreciation; it was about control. He didn't want other men looking at me. He didn't want me to possess any confidence that didn't directly stem from his approval.

I remember a night during our junior year when he found a tiny, sparkly tube of cherry lip gloss in my purse. He grabbed it, marched into the kitchen, and threw it directly into the trash bin, screaming that I was trying to look like a "whore" for his teammates.

I shake my head, forcing the memory back into the dark corners of my mind. It is a pathetic, humiliating excuse. Ten years of my life, and I don't even know how to properly apply mascara because I was trying to keep a toxic man happy.

I remember the look of sheer, heartbreaking pity Katya gave me the first time I confessed that to her. I never want to see that look on her face again.

I turn back to the mirror, determination hardening in my chest.

I am sitting on my bed, wearing the prettiest, most daring dress I own. It’s a gorgeous, heavy white silk dress that Katya bought me for my birthday last year. I had kept it hidden in the back of my closet, still wrapped in its plastic garment bag, because Brooks had deemed the off-the-shoulder neckline "too desperate."

But Brooks isn't here anymore. He doesn't get to decide what I wear. He doesn't get to decide who looks at me.

I reach into the drawer and pull out a pair of thick, gold hoop earrings, slipping them through my lobes. Then, I gather my wild, natural black curls and pull them back into a high, voluminous ponytail. They shrink easily in the humidity anyway, so there’s no point in trying to force them into a straight, sleek style that isn't mine. I let the curls cascade down, framing my neck.

The YouTube tutorial is surprisingly easy to follow once I actually focus. It turns out, I already have most of the products I need, all of them high-end brands that Katya had sneakily left on my dresser over the months.

I start with a light layer of foundation, blending it carefully over my skin until my complexion is even and glowing. I tap a bit of concealer under my eyes, hiding the dark circles left by nights of crying over a man who didn't deserve a single one of my tears.

I curl my lashes, my hand shaking slightly, but I manage to apply the mascara without poking myself in the eye. I swipe a dusty rose lipstick across my lips, topping it with a clear, high-shine gloss.

When I finally put the brush down and look at my reflection in the vanity mirror, my breath hitches in my throat.

I did a decent job. More than decent, actually.

But as I stare at my reflection, a cold, insidious thought creeps into my mind, threatening to undo all my progress.

*Was it worth it?*

All those years. All those dinners where I sat bare-faced and plain, pretending I didn't care about makeup. Pretending I didn't want to look beautiful, or glamorous, or eye-catching like the girls I saw on social media. I had shrunk myself, diminished my own light, just to keep a fragile, insecure boy from throwing a tantrum.

I guess Brooks leaving me actually has some major perks. Now, I can do things like this. I can wear the white dress. I can wear the red lipstick. I can exist without the constant, suffocating anxiety of wondering if my appearance will trigger his anger.

I reach over and grab my small black clutch, taking one final, long look in the mirror.

My breath catches again, a sharp, physical gasp.

I look... incredibly pretty.

The white silk of the dress clings to my curves, highlighting the golden undertones of my skin. The gold hoops catch the light, and my dark curls bounce with every movement of my head. My eyes look larger, brighter, framed by the dark lashes.

Suddenly, my eyes burn. A hot wave of unshed tears threatens to spill over, risking all my hard work.

I squeeze my eyes shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

When was the last time I actually liked the way I looked?

When was the last time I was allowed to care about myself?

The realization of how much I had given up, of how much of myself I had sacrificed on the altar of Brooks's fragile ego, fills me with a cold, hard, beautiful resolve. The sadness vanishes, replaced by a sharp, cutting edge of defiance.

I stand up, smoothing down the skirt of my dress, and walk toward the bedroom door.

I pull it open.

Katya is standing right there in the hallway, her hand frozen mid-air, just inches from the wood. She was clearly about to knock.

She sees me, and her hand drops to her side. Her lips part slightly, her eyes widening as she takes in the sight of me. For the first time in her life, the fast-talking, quick-thinking PR executive is completely speechless. She just stares, her gaze sweeping from my curled ponytail down to the hem of the white silk dress.

The silence stretches between us, heavy and loaded with years of shared history.

So, I speak first.

I lift my chin high, letting the confidence I’ve hidden for ten years finally shine through.

“I’m ready,” I say, my voice steady, carrying a sharp, dangerous edge that surprises even me. “Let’s go make that asshole regret wasting ten years of my life.”

Katya’s shock melts away in an instant. A slow, predatory warmth fills her eyes, and her face splits into the biggest, most triumphant, absolute shit-eating grin I have ever seen in my life.