One crisp autumn afternoon, sunlight slanted through my cozy apartment windows while I sat alone, anxiously watching my phone. My boyfriend, Jace, hadn’t shown up or even texted in days. He claimed he was sick — tired, maybe fighting a fever — but something didn’t feel right.
Despite his groggy voice on the phone, I decided I couldn’t just wait. I grabbed my coat, walked briskly through the chilly streets, and stocked up on fresh fruit, tea, and throat lozenges — anything that might help him feel better. Caring was what girlfriends did, right?
When I reached Jace’s building, a flutter of nervous hope lifted my chest. Stepping out of the elevator, I froze: there he was — in his arms was another woman, close and intimate in a way that made my stomach drop.
My voice cut through the quiet hallway: “Looks like you’re feeling better.” Jace turned pale and tried to explain, but I didn’t wait to hear it. I hurled my bag of groceries at him and walked away, heart pounding with anger and disbelief.
Days passed without a message or apology from him — not even a simple “I’m sorry.” The lack of remorse gnawed at me like unfinished business. I needed closure, even if it meant seeing him again.
So I agreed when he suggested we meet at our favorite café — the place of our first date. I sat in our corner booth, heartsick and cold inside, waiting. But hour after hour passed and Jace didn’t show. Finally, his text explained in weak words that he “couldn’t stand seeing me so sad.” It didn’t make sense. It made me furious.
Walking up the stairs toward home, I froze again — this time at my own door. There stood the woman from the elevator hallway, her expression uneasy, like she’d been waiting for me.
“What are you doing here?!” I yelled, defensive and angry. She just looked nervous. But then she spoke, and her words stopped me cold: “I finally realized what he’s really like, and I wanted to talk to someone who understands.”
Her name was Ashley. Inside my apartment — over a bottle of wine — she revealed that Jace had said awful things about me to her, trying to turn us against each other. But once she saw him with me in the elevator, she realized the truth: he was the problem.
There was anger, disbelief, and then… curiosity. Before I knew it, we were laughing and plotting revenge — mischievous, bold, and unforgettable.
Together, Ashley and I created fake dating profiles using Jace’s photos, sending flirty messages to curious strangers online to watch him scramble trying to explain himself. We posted his phone number with a bold tagline promising late‑night fun. The reactions — confused calls and frantic texts from Jace — became our secret amusement.
Our final touch was bold: we rented ad space in busy parts of town and plastered billboards with Jace’s smiling face and a tagline like “Looking for someone to love and support.” Seeing it light up the streets was priceless.
Eventually, Jace begged us to stop. I agreed — for a price. I demanded enough for a two‑week vacation to Spain. When the transfer hit my account, I sent a final message that our fake personas had “lost the passwords” and that the billboards were paid for months more. Then I blocked his number for good.
A few days later, Ashley and I were soaking up the Spanish sun, the waves crashing as we laughed with cold sangria in hand. What started as heartbreak turned into an unexpected friendship and one unforgettable adventure — and revenge had never tasted so sweet.
