One autumn afternoon, I sat alone in my apartment, the sunlight faintly streaming in. Outside, the orange and red leaves seemed to mock my restlessness as I waited for my boyfriend, Jace, to show up. He hadn’t visited in days, claiming exhaustion, but I wasn’t buying it.
I nervously tapped my foot, then dialed his number. He answered groggily, claiming he was sick and had fallen asleep. His voice sounded off, and before I could even ask if he needed help, he hung up.
Frustrated, I grabbed a few things from the store—fruit, tea, lozenges—and headed to his place. As the elevator doors opened, my heart sank. There was Jace, holding another woman, too close for comfort. “Looks like you’re feeling better,” I blurted out, my voice sharper than I meant.
Jace stammered, but I cut him off, warning him not to speak or move. I threw the groceries at him and walked away, my heart pounding with disgust.
Days passed without a word from him. No apology, no attempt to make things right. I texted him, demanding closure, and we agreed to meet at our old café. I sat there, waiting until 8 p.m. with no sign of him. Finally, a text: “I can’t come. I can’t stand seeing you sad.” His cowardice was infuriating.
When I got home, the woman from the elevator was waiting for me. Her name was Ashley, and she had a story to tell. Jace had manipulated her, too, just like he had with me. She was done with him, and, together, we plotted revenge.
We created fake dating profiles, sent flirty messages to men, and posted his phone number on an ad site. Our final move was a billboard with Jace’s face, advertising his “search for a man.” The texts and calls flooded in, pushing him to the brink.
We demanded a payment for stopping the chaos, and once it was transferred, we left him with the billboards still up.
Ashley and I flew to Spain, where we toasted to our victory on the beach, knowing that while I had lost a terrible boyfriend, I had gained a true friend. Revenge never tasted so sweet.
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