Chapter 1
Mia Rubes:
Jay Gatsby wasn’t a romantic. He was a coward.
All that money, all that charm, and he used it to throw parties and pine for a woman who let him rot the first time. When he finally had something to say, he hid behind champagne and string quartets, waiting for her to love him back.
Spoiler: she didn’t.
I’m not Jay Gatsby. I don’t build dreams; I tear people down. Unlike the spoiled rich fools Gatsby killed himself over trying to impress, everyone will remember my name: Mia Rubes.
Six months ago, at our ten-year high school reunion, the brats who bullied me day-in and day-out suddenly wanted to be my best friend. They had learned I was rich, internet famous, and finally knew how to use my curves. So my real best friend, Lena, and I decided to get them back. I’ve been crossing names off my list, one at a time.
I close the book with a soft snap and let the moment sit. The townhouse is quiet, apart from the low hum of the livestream rolling in the background. Thousands of eyes on me. I sip red wine, tilt my head, and smile as if I just said something wicked. The chat floods with reactions: laughing emojis, crying ones, flame wars between lit majors and TikTok philosophers. I let them argue. Controversy keeps them loyal. Truth keeps me sharp.
I rise from the velvet sofa, letting the silk of my dress glide over my thighs. At the bar, crystal glints like teeth. I refill my glass with practiced grace. “Revenge,” I say aloud, “tastes better than love anyway.”
My front doorbell chimes. A specific kind of chill runs through me. I already know who it is. There is only one man who would show up uninvited this late, dripping with regret.
I open the door.
Derek stands there, wet and breathless, his hands twitching like they want to be forgiven. His once-perfect jawline is shadowed, his golden-boy glow dimmed. High school’s favorite predator is now just a man caught in a moment he didn’t expect to last forever.
“Mia,” he breathes. “Can we talk?”
I lean against the doorframe, letting my silence stretch just long enough for discomfort to bloom.
Five minutes. That’s all I give him.
He enters, leaving a trail of rainwater on the floor. He hovers at the edge of my carefully curated world, and doesn’t sit. Good.
“I always knew you’d be something,” he says. “Bigger than this city. Bigger than all of us.”
“Did you?” I murmur. “Because I remember you calling me ‘Pubes’ for four straight years.”
He winces. A welcome pang of cruelty.
“I was a kid,” he says. “We were...”
“Cruel,” I interrupt. “You were cruel. On purpose.”
He nods in the long silence. “I deserved that,” he says quietly.
Honesty from Derek. It lands heavier than I expect.
I pour us each a drink, hand him one, then take it back before it reaches his lips. “No. You don’t get to be comfortable here.”
His hands drop to his sides, helpless.
“I came because I wanted to tell you that I’ve changed,” he says. “I think about what I did to you. Every day.”
I study him. I believe him, and I hate that I do.
“I don’t care.” I step closer, until there’s barely a breath between us. His eyes soften, familiar and dangerous. He thinks this is his redemption arc. But I’m not here for that.
I kiss him, hard. I pull him in like I own him, and for a moment, I do. He follows every movement, every unspoken command, until we’re tangled on the sofa. His hands are tentative now, reverent. He thinks this is healing. It’s not.
I think of all the times I cried because of them, all the nights I lay awake plotting my escape from that town. I think of the power I hold now: the power to crush him, to forgive him, to use him.
I let my dress slip from my shoulders, the silk cascading to the floor. We stand naked before each other, two bodies laden with the history of our shared pain. I take his hand and lead him to the sofa. He tries to kiss me, but I turn my head, denying him that intimacy. This isn’t about love or even desire. This is about taking what is owed.
He moves to touch me, to caress, but I guide him with firm hands, directing his actions, controlling every moment. His mouth finds my breasts, then my stomach, and I push his head lower, closing my eyes as his lips and tongue work their way down. The pleasure is real, but it’s secondary. What fills me, what consumes me, is the power. The knowledge that he is in the palm of my hand, that he will do anything I ask. That he is mine, if only for this moment.
I gasp and clutch at his hair as I come, my body trembling with the force of it. He looks up, hopeful, and I pull him to me, then switch so I straddle him. I can feel him hard, his need, his longing.
“Do you remember the prom?” I ask, my voice breathy from the aftershocks. He shoves a condom on his thick cock. “When you and your friends dumped that punch on me?”
He closes his eyes, pain flashing across his face. “Yes.”
I take him in, sliding down with a deliberate, torturous pace. He groans, his hands gripping my thighs.
“And the time you pulled my pants down in the middle of gym class?”
“Mia, please.”
I start to move, rocking my hips in a slow, grinding circle. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his body coiled like a spring.
“Please what?” I lean in to whisper. “Please stop? Please forgive me?”
He’s silent, biting his lip, his eyes screwed shut. I kiss his neck, his collarbone, tracing a line with my tongue.
“You enjoyed it, didn’t you? Hurting me.”
“No,” he says, but it’s a lie we both know.
I quicken my pace, riding him harder, faster. His hands move to my hips, squeezing, guiding me. I let him, lost in the physicality, the raw, primal exertion.
“I hated you,” I say, my voice cracking with the truth of it. “I hated you so much.”
He opens his eyes, filled with something I can’t read. “Do you still?”
I don’t answer, because I don’t know. The line between hate and something else has grown perilously thin.
I feel him start to tense, his body on the brink. I slow, then stop, holding him deep inside me. His face is a mask of agony and ecstasy.
“No,” I say, and climb off him. He looks confused, betrayed. I don’t care. “Your five minutes are up,” I say, grabbing a robe and leaving the room.
In the hallway, I take a deep breath, the scent of rain and sweat clinging to my skin. I walk to the front door and open it. The cool night air rushes in, the rain a light drizzle. The streets glisten with a slick, wet sheen.
Derek emerges from the living room, dressed but disheveled. He stops when he sees me at the door, uncertainty on his face. I walk him to the door. He hesitates, his soaked shirt clinging to his skin like penance. “I meant it,” he whispers. “About being sorry.”
“I know.” I slam the door in his face.
I don’t cry. I don’t gloat. I walk back to the bar and refill my glass. My hands are steady, but my chest aches.
I return to the sofa and find the copy of The Great Gatsby where I left it. I pick it up, running my fingers over the cover, and open to the last page.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgasmic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…
I close the book and set it down. Perhaps Gatsby wasn’t so pathetic after all. To believe in something so fiercely, to hold on to hope against all odds—that takes a different kind of courage.
I go to the balcony, the cool breeze a welcome brush on my skin. The city stretches behind my camera, a backdrop for a story. My main channel is rated PG. You know, cute pictures, product promotions, meeting fans—the kind of account you’d find on TikTok or Instagram. My second account, the secret one, is my alter-ego. Subscription only. My 95,000 subscribers pay $5K a month to watch my vlog, where I recount my adventures on revenge. It turns out a lot of people want to live through me.
Tired, I go back inside and turn off my camera after wishing my viewers goodnight. It’s time to move on from Derek and focus on my next victims: Samantha Blake and Chloe Mitchell.
I take a slow sip of the wine, letting its warmth spread, loosening the tight coil of anger. The city lights shimmer like a thousand tiny promises—of success, of validation, of the life I’ve worked so hard to build.
Every curve, every line of my body, is an intricate dance of seduction I learned in my tiny apartment. The wine is gone too quickly. I liked the way it made me float just above my thoughts. I consider opening another bottle but decide against it. I need my wits about me.
Ethan Bradley. I close my eyes and picture his face. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, the determined set of his jaw when he thinks no one is watching. He was the last person I expected to see at the reunion, the one face from my past that I thought might actually be happy for me.
The rain starts up again, a soft patter against the railing. I liked Ethan once, honestly. He was the only one who stood up for me, the only one who made an effort to understand. But high school is a different universe, and in this world, there is no room for the naïve girl who thought kindness could save her.
Perhaps that’s why I wanted to kiss him. To see if the years and the hurt had dulled the spark, or fanned it into something uncontrollable. Or maybe I just wanted to take a piece of his soul for my collection.
I touch my lips, remembering the softness of his, the way he hesitated and then leaned in with a kind of desperate hunger. It wasn’t unsatisfying, even though we were kids playing spin-the-bottle. He was always kind, but distant. I wanted to kiss him again at that reunion, at least until I saw Samantha Blake on his arm.
Seeing them together sparked a female rage that scared me. But rather than let it consume me, I shaped it to work for me. It doesn’t hurt that my best friend Lena is a tech genius who helps me gather information to perfect my plans.
I laugh, a short, bitter sound. No, I’m not Gatsby. I’m smarter than that. I am Mia Rubes, and I don’t believe in the future. I believe in now.
I walk to the bedroom, the mirror above the dresser catching my eye. Even without makeup, I’m striking. It’s a beauty I had to earn, one that took countless hours of work. Nothing about me is accidental.
Stripping off my dress, I run my hands over my body. There’s a power in knowing I can make people feel things just by looking at me. It’s a power Gatsby could never wield.
Then, I slip into bed, the sheets cool against my skin.
I’m set on revenge, and unfortunately, Ethan may or may not get injured in the crossfire, because his fiancée is my next target. Samantha Blake and her best friend Chloe Mitchell.
