Her Final Act of Vengeance

thing. He promised to protect me forever. But for ten years, his endless affairs and cruel

e gave my gift-an emerald necklace I' d dreamed

rother I had left: his final symphony. She scribbled on the pag

o save me had weaponized my deepest traumas to de

tone for his sins. He kneels by my deathbed, begging

act of revenge require

his

pte

He's all mine now. You really thought you could win?" The words burned

terated fury. The crystal vase, a wedding gift from his mother, shattered against the fireplace, echoing the fracture in our lives. Sha

After I came back? Him?" His voice crac

um. My body felt heavy, disconnected, like a puppet whose stri

, my voice flat, almost bored. The tru

some stranger in our bed? Is that your sophisticated composer talk for 'I hate you'?" He stumbled backward, runni

ed-out tree, rotting from the inside. There wasn't enough energy left for hate, only a profound, aching weariness.

e." I gazed at the shattered vase, its delicate beauty now a dangerous mess. The room was a battlefield of broken trust and wasted years. Gla

is eyes wide and terrified. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, utterly

mble. He stomped towards Kash, his powerful frame radiating menace. Kash scrambled up, tripping over his own f

rs digging into my flesh, a silent accusation. He yanked me up, twisting my arm

exerted. He backed me against the wall, his body pressing into mine, trapping me. "You think you can play these game

already heavy cloak of shame. I felt nothing new, just a deeper ache, a recognition of

were raw, already bleeding, but he didn't flinch. He just stared at me, his eyes wide, almost pleading.

focating weight against mine. The room started to spin, the edges of my vision blur

me cheap thrill? What did he have that I didn't? Was it his youth? His lack of baggage? Or jus

lying. "I think you're a narcissistic bitch. I think you enjoyed every second of

idn't mean to, but my body betrayed me. I leaned away from him, my stomach convulsing, and vomited onto the pristine white rug, barely miss

ie? What the hell...?" His voice was laced with disbelief, a flicker of something aki

isting and turning. My limbs felt weak, my head a drumbeat of agony. Al

time. You want to be independent? Fine. Live with your choices. We' re nothing but strangers from now on." With that, he stormed out of the room, the heavy oak door s

y a dull ache. My eyes scanned the wreckage of the room, a mirror to the wreckage inside me. Then I saw it. On m

I' d admired years ago, in the window of that tiny boutique in Paris during our honeymoon. A frivolous expense, I' d called it then, but a secret part of me

ntion, with gifts, with promises. He was always good at promises. He' d cooked me dinner, played my favorite classical pieces on the grand piano downstairs, stayed up talking to me all night, listening to my fears, my anxiet

as it just another performance? Another calculated move to regain control? He had always bee

by the thought that he was just a better actor than I was. My illness, still a secret, gnawed at me, stripping away my ability to create, my ability

a test of his own twisted philosophy. He preached that physical acts meant nothing, that only emotio

rsary. Forever, my Janie." Tomorrow. The necklace, the card, the smashed vase, the raw wounds on Conrad' s knuckles, the bile on the rug

darkness. It was that number, the one with the pro

e now, Janie. You reall