Vengeance

Fear your thoughts. Your conscience. Your reasoning.

What appears to be may not be.

Deception hides behind sweet words, and betrayal wears a familiar face.

Life once felt safe when she didn’t ask questions. But ignorance was a dream. Now, reality stung—and it was wide awake.

---

“I feel like you’re being too naive,” Marie muttered, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her voice was flat—neutral, almost calculated. “Maybe he isn’t so bad after all…”

Charlotte’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Or maybe he’s worse than we think.”

She looked down at her hands. “Who knows? Maybe this whole mess is revenge… or maybe it’s love twisted into something cruel.”

There was silence.

Because how do you explain to someone that you might be falling for the person you’re trying to destroy?

---

Charlotte’s phone buzzed again—an irritating rhythm she had learned to tune out. Notifications, calls, voice notes. None of them mattered right now.

She was sitting right there, after all. And yet, Ryan kept calling. As if control over her time, her thoughts, her silence—was his right.

By the time the screen lit up for the twentieth time, she sighed and finally answered.

“Charlotte, what is this behavior?” came his sharp voice, calm but forced. “We don’t have time for your tantrums. First, you refuse to go shopping for your wedding dress, and now you won’t even look at the options I sent.”

There was a pause—enough for his frustration to cool—but only slightly.

“These aren’t my style,” Charlotte replied with a lazy grin. “I’d rather get married in pajamas. Comfort matters more than aesthetics.”

The devilish spark in her voice infuriated him.

“Are you out of your mind—”

Click.

She ended the call. Cold and clean.

---

A soft knock followed a few minutes later. Her mother.

“Sweetheart, what are you up to?” she asked, peeking through the doorway. Her voice had always been gentle, but tonight, there was something more in it—concern laced with hesitation.

“Nothing,” Charlotte replied, shrugging.

Her mother walked in and sat beside her, gazing into her eyes. Those deep olive eyes—so much like her late father’s. It always broke her mother to look into them for too long.

“Ryan’s worried,” she finally said. “He came to me earlier. Said you’re being distant. Cold.”

“He deserves it,” Charlotte snapped before her mother could say more. “Maybe I’m not being harsh enough.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed, not in anger but in confusion. “But all he did was ask about your dress. Why are you punishing him for that?”

Charlotte opened her mouth to explain, then shut it again. There were too many layers to the truth. Too many secrets she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say aloud.

So she just stayed silent.

---

Later that evening, after an exhausting shift at the bookstore, Charlotte waited alone on the curb for her ride. The chill in the air clung to her skin, but it wasn’t enough to distract her from the thoughts running through her head.

The headlights of a familiar car lit up the road.

A black, expensive-looking vehicle rolled to a stop in front of her.

The window rolled down slowly.

“Cherry. Get in,” Ryan said.

She blinked. Not surprised. Just tired.

“No,” she said firmly.

“I’m not asking. I’m telling you.”

His voice had shifted. Less sweet, more steel.

She didn’t budge.

For a moment, they locked eyes through the glass—his gaze burning, hers unreadable.

Then he opened the door and stepped out.

The street was mostly empty. No witnesses. He approached with a calm that almost frightened her more than rage would have.

“You’re being dramatic,” he muttered, cornering her gently against his car. “Let’s not do this here.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said coldly, even as he leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek.

He smiled. “You never were. That’s what I like about you.”

His tone shifted again, sugarcoated and manipulative. “Mon Chéri… you know how much I care about you…”

And then—she laughed. Loud, raw, and unsettling.

It startled him. He flinched. His grip tightened reflexively.

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone.

“You want to talk about care?” she said, unlocking it. “Then explain this.”

She held the screen up to him.

A message glared back in bright white font:

> “The old man has power and wealth, but only a daughter for an heir. She's naive, emotional. If I eliminate him, she’ll fall apart. And I’ll be there to collect the pieces.”

Ryan’s face drained of color.

His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came.

“You… you wouldn’t believe that,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “That could be anyone—anyone trying to sabotage me.”

“Interesting that you’re not denying it,” she said flatly.

He reached out to grab her phone, but she pulled it back.

“I swear, Charlotte. I would cancel the wedding right now if that’s what it takes. Just look at me. Don’t believe some anonymous message over me!”

“Then do it,” she said.

He blinked. “What?”

“Cancel the wedding.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?”

The silence cracked between them.

Then suddenly—rage overtook him.

He lunged forward, snatched the phone from her hand, and hurled it onto the pavement.

It shattered.

“Problem solved,” he said bitterly. “Now can we go eat in peace?”

Charlotte stared at the broken screen, then back at him. Her hand trembled, but her voice didn’t.

She picked up a rock from the sidewalk.

And hurled it at his car.

The windshield splintered with a loud crack.

Ryan froze.

“If it wasn’t true,” she said calmly, “why did it scare you enough to destroy the evidence?”

He swallowed hard.

Before he could answer, her cab pulled up. She opened the door and got in, leaving him on the street—cursing at the sky.

---

The car ride was quiet—too quiet. Her head ached. The sting of losing the phone wasn’t just about the device. It was about the power she lost with it.

That message was her proof. And now it was gone.

She’d always thought she could outsmart him, stay one step ahead. But she’d acted emotionally—shown her hand too early.

And now she had nothing.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

She wanted to scream.

Her driver glanced back at her through the rearview mirror. “Miss… are you alright?”

She wiped her face quickly and nodded. “Yes. Just tired.”

“If you need anything, I’m here. The world’s tough for women like you—strong ones. You deserve to be treated better.”

His words caught her off guard.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

---

When she got home, the smell of warm potato stew greeted her. The familiar scent should have comforted her—but it only made her ache.

That was her father’s favorite. He used to insist they all eat together at least once a week. Back when they were whole.

Now, the table felt too big. Too quiet.

She walked into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa. Her head was pounding.

Her mother was in the kitchen, busy pouring orange juice, humming a soft tune. She didn’t see her daughter walk in.

Charlotte closed her eyes, trying to forget the shattered screen, the cold look in Ryan’s eyes, and the rising fear that maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t in control anymore.

“Darling,” her mother called out cheerfully. “Where were you? I called and texted all evening.”

“My phone broke,” Charlotte lied quickly.

She couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet. Not until she had something to show for it.

“It slipped from my hand. I took it to a repair shop, but it’s gone.”

Her mother frowned but nodded. “That’s a shame.”

Charlotte forced a smile. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

It wasn’t.

But for now, peace was the priority. Survival came before revenge.

She would rebuild.

She would find the truth again.

And next time—she wouldn’t make the mistake of showing her cards too soon.

---