Revenge

Darla

It’s been four years.

Four years since I left this place, since I walked away from everything. Four years since I boarded that plane, carrying nothing but heartbreak, regret, and the weight of a past I couldn’t face.

Now, I’m back.

The moment I step out of the plane, the cold air wraps around me like an old friend. Almost comforting. The sharp breeze stings against my skin, but I welcome it. I breathe it in, deep and slow, letting the chill seep into my bones.

I never thought I’d come back. Not after everything. Not after the way I left.

But I had to.

There are things I left behind—unfinished business, ghosts that refuse to rest. And I am more than capable of dealing with them now.

People always say revenge is dangerous. That it’s a poison, a fire that consumes everything in its path, including the one who wields it. They warn you about how demanding it is, how it strips away your soul piece by piece.

But what they don’t tell you—what no one ever admits—is how thrilling it is.

How satisfying it is to watch everything unfold exactly the way you planned.

For four years, I watched. I waited. I kept my distance, but I never lost sight of them. The news, social media, every single publication—I devoured it all. Every headline, every whisper, every move they made.

“Keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer.”

I have done exactly that.

And now, it’s time.

All I want is revenge, and I will stop at nothing until I get it.

The car ride to the hotel is smooth, i barely had time to enjoy the view of what I left behind. My fingers tap lightly against my thigh as I stare out the tinted window, the city lights blurring past.

When we arrive, I step out, heels clicking against the pavement. My gaze sweeps up, taking in the towering glass structure before me.

Savare Hotel.

It has changed since the last time I saw it. Bigger. Bolder. A statement of power, of wealth, of status.

The glass doors slide open, and I step inside. A man in a sleek black suit approaches immediately, his expression polished, his work smile perfectly in place.

“Welcome to Savare Hotel,” he says smoothly, his voice carrying the practiced warmth of someone who greets dozens of guests every day. “This way, ma’am.”

I follow him through the grand entrance, my pace steady, matching with his.

The lobby is stunning.

Golden chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, polished marble floors. A fresh arrangement of roses in elegant crystal vases, filling the air with a delicate, almost intoxicating scent. The furniture—sleek, modern, expensive—placed strategically to exude nothing but luxury.

I’ve seen exquisite buildings before.

I lived in New York for four years. I’ve walked past penthouses, attended events in halls grander than this. I’ve been in places most people can only dream of.

But this place—this specific place—leaves me stunned.

“How may I help you, ma’am?”

The receptionist’s voice is smooth, professional. She looks up at me, her expression warm but distant—the kind of smile that never quite reaches the eyes. She’s young, maybe in her late twenties, dressed in a sleek black uniform that screams elegance and efficiency.

“One of the finest rooms,” I say, my voice even, controlled.

She nods without hesitation, her fingers flying across the keyboard in a skillful rhythm. The soft clicking fills the air as I watch her, waiting. It doesn’t take long before she retrieves a key card, swiping it off the counter with ease.

“The best rooms are on our eleventh floor, room 1508” she says, handing it over with another polite smile. “Do have a wonderful stay.”

I take the card without a word, slipping it between my fingers as I turn away. The man from earlier—the one who greeted me at the entrance—waits nearby, ready to escort me.

The elevator ride is silent. I lean against the cool metal railing, my gaze flicking up to the panel of buttons. Twelve floors. The hotel is taller than I expected, more impressive up close.

The doors slide open with a soft chime, and I follow the man down the quiet, dimly lit hallway. Plush carpet absorbs the sound of my footsteps as I move, the soft scent of vanilla and roses lingering in the air.

We stop in front of my room.

I swipe the key card. A soft beep, a green light. The lock clicks open.

Stepping inside, I take in the space—spacious, modern, luxurious in a way that feels almost suffocating. The floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the city below, lights twinkling like distant stars.

I don’t bother admiring the view.

I tip the man, a quick exchange of bills before he nods and steps out.

The moment the door shuts, I let out a breath.

I don’t bother unpacking.

I don’t bother thinking.

I just move to the bed, collapsing onto the soft mattress, letting my body sink into the unfamiliar comfort.

And for the first time since stepping foot in this city, I let exhaustion take me.

****

I stand in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection.

A black dress clings to me, smooth and sleek, the high slit stopping just at my thigh, revealing just enough to turn heads. The fabric hugs my curves, a perfect blend of elegance and danger.

My hair is pulled into a high ponytail, tight and glossed, not a single strand out of place. A red pearl necklace rests against my collarbone, catching the dim light of the hotel room. It matches the red bag I hold in my hand—bold, striking.

I look dangerous. Powerful.

Exactly how I need to be tonight.

After an entire day of rest, my energy has returned. My mind is sharp. My body is ready. There is no hesitation as I step out of the hotel, sliding into the waiting car.

Tonight, I do what I came here to do.

The Claus family house looms ahead, a grand estate glowing under the warm haze of golden lights. Even before I step out of the car, I can hear the music thumping from the garage, laughter spilling out onto the driveway.

They’re celebrating.

Of course they are.

The moment I step onto the property, I blend into the crowd, moving through the sea of well-dressed guests. No one spares me a second glance. They don’t know who I am.

But I know them.

My eyes sweep the room, and then I see them.

The spotlight lands on them.

Roy and Esther.

She’s draped in a white floral dress, grinning from ear to ear as she raises her glass of wine, her perfectly manicured fingers wrapped delicately around the stem. She looks radiant.

Beside her stands Roy—my ex-fiancé.

He’s dressed in a brown suit, his hair trimmed shorter than I remember. He looks older, more refined, but beneath it all, I still see the same man. The same betrayer.

He isn’t even paying attention to his wife. His eyes wander, his hands gesturing as he speaks to the men surrounding him, laughing at whatever meaningless conversation they’re having.

It’s their anniversary night.

Four years.

Four years of watching them from a distance, tracking their every move. I know everything about them. Their routines, their secrets, their celebrations.

And tonight is the perfect opportunity.

A tap of a spoon against a glass silences the room, drawing everyone’s attention back to the couple at the center. Roy clears his throat, lifting his champagne flute high.

“I would like to raise a toast,” he announces, his voice strong, assured. “To my lovely wife, Esther, who has stood by my side for four incredible years. Four years of love, of joy, of unwavering support. I could not ask for more.”

Esther beams, her eyes shining as she loops her arm through his, pressing closer to him. They look perfect together. The perfect couple.

A sharp, bitter laugh builds in my chest, but I swallow it down.

The disgust must be evident on my face, because I can feel the heat of it spreading through me, steaming beneath my skin like a slow-burning fire.

Then, my eyes shift.

And I see it.

The glass tower.

A pyramid of delicate champagne glasses, stacked one on top of the other, twinkling under the golden lights.

My fingers tighten around my red bag as I take a slow, intentional step forward.

I already know my next move.

“Happy anniversary, my darling. And cheers.”

Roy’s voice carries through the air, dripping with the kind of arrogance that used to make my skin crawl. He lifts his glass high, a warm smile on his face.

The crowd echoes him, raising their glasses in unison.

I make my move.

Reaching down, I pluck a single glass from the base of the towering pyramid.

And then—chaos.

The entire structure collapses in a symphony of shattering glass and gasps. Champagne splashes across the table, spilling onto the expensive floors. The sound is deafening, the kind of noise that demands attention.

And I have it.

Every eye in the room turns to me.

I don’t flinch. I don’t waver. Instead, I raise my own glass higher, a smirk curling at the corner of my lips.

“Happy anniversary,” I say, voice laced with mockery.

Murmurs ripple through the crowd, filled confusion and recognition. Some guests whisper, others stare, waiting for an explanation.

Then I look at them—Roy and Esther.

They stand frozen in place, the perfect image of a golden couple now smeared with scandal. Esther grips her glass tightly, her knuckles turning white, while Roy just stares, as if trying to place a ghost from his past.

I tilt my head, letting my smirk grow. “Who would have thought you two would actually last four years together? Feels like just yesterday when you betrayed me and married her.” I let out a slow, deliberate clap. “I must applaud you, Roy. Really. Well done.”

A flicker of recognition flashes in Roy’s eyes, the shock settling in. He takes a step closer, his gaze scanning my face like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“Darla?” His voice is softer now, almost uncertain.

It stirs something inside me—satisfaction. He doesn’t recognize me at first, and why would he? I am not the same woman he left behind.

I spent years crafting this version of myself.

For this moment.

“Pick up your jaw, Roy.” I walked right past him towards Esther, I found almost harm her with how close we got. “So, where are the kids? You don’t have any?”

I watch as the color drains from Esther’s face, and my smirk deepens.

I know they don’t have children.

I know they can’t.

It’s been four years, and I’ve kept track. I’ve seen the articles, the subtle comments in interviews, the desperation in their eyes when asked about family.

I lean in slightly, voice dropping to a faux-concerned whisper. “Shocking, really. You, of all people, without kids? Considering how much you cared about sex, I would’ve thought you’d have a whole football team by now.”

A little laugh escapes me, sharp and cruel. I shift my attention to Esther, stepping closer until I’m nearly in her space. She takes a step back to escape me but that doesn't help her.

“Wait a minute…” I pause for dramatic effect, watching her flinch. Then, lowering my voice just enough, I whisper in her ear—but loud enough for Roy to hear.

“You haven’t told him the truth yet, have you?”

Esther’s entire body stiffens.

Panic beats across her face, just for a second, but it’s enough.

It’s enough for Roy to notice.

The way he turns to her—quick, searching, suspicious—tells me everything.

And then—

“Security!” Esther’s voice cracks as she shrieks the order.

Pathetic.

I barely have time to glance around the crowd before I feel it—a heavy hand on my shoulder, ready to drag me away.

I don’t even turn.

I don’t need to.

In one motion, I grip the guard’s wrist, twist it over my head, and flip him onto the ground with ease.

A collective gasp sweeps through the crowd as the man lands hard, groaning in pain.

I dust off my dress, unfazed. “No one touches me.” My gaze flicks back to Roy and Esther, drinking in their stunned expressions. “I hope you two last long together.”