Unfortunately, it always did.
Even back when I was promised all the time and resources I’d need to punish him once he died, I knew it would take restraint to truly break him in the afterlife. There, I’d have the upper hand. I’d be in total control. But even then, finesse would still be the key.
Now, the circumstances have changed, but that point still stands.
The best revenge isn’t loud.
It’s not messy or quick or even bloody.
It’s slow.
It’s the kind that starts with a whisper and ends with the screaming.
That’s the kind I intend to perform.
I crouch, half-hidden beneath the willow’s curtain of dripping leaves. My fingers find the edge of the locket in my pocket—Laura’s little treasure—and I make a mental note not to lose it.
My shitshow of a husband values control more than anything. I’d like to say his connection to Jessica is real—something pure, something passionate—but let’s not kid ourselves. It’s strategic. Convenient. Just like every other choice Mark has ever made.
Jessica is soft. Predictable. Manageable. The kind of woman who thinks “trust your gut” is a metaphor, not a biological survival mechanism.
He didn’t choose a partner.
He chose an audience.
So, no. She’s not the angle.
He is.
I need to make Mark lose his absolute fucking mind.
Then I’ll make him lose everything else.
Step one? A slow, psychological strip-tease of dread.
I push off the tree and move, circling toward the front of the house. I’ve been watching them long enough to know where Jessica hides her spare key. Sadly, it’s not cliché enough to call her stupid. It’s not under the doormat, not in a fake rock, not even taped under the porch swing like some rom-com reject.
No. Jessica’s idea of security is slightly above average.
Which is annoying, because I’d love to call her a moron while breaking into her picture-perfect life.
Instead, it’s tucked inside an old, hollowed-out birdhouse nailed to the far post of the porch.
Yeah,myold birdhouse. I put it there.
But fuck it.
I reach in, brushing past dry straw until my fingers catch on cold metal.
Gotcha.
I let myself in slow.
The house smells like chamomile and bleach. It’s spotless, of course. Nothing of its old charm has survived.
I pad down the hall, dripping mud across their pristine little runner like it’s my personal mission.
Then I head for the fridge.
