I caught my husband and my best friend in the act. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just coolly dropped a single line: "He's all yours now." My friends praised my composure, my ability to let go. They said I was like a badass heroine from a power-fantasy novel, brought to life. But my story didn't end like a power fantasy. After a brief storm of public opinion, the two of them simply got married. The next year, my ex-best-friend gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. My ex-husband’s startup took off, making him fabulously successful. They became the picture-perfect family everyone envied. And me? Shortly after the divorce, the emotional backlash hit me like a tidal wave. I was incinerated by the trauma of betrayal and the acid of humiliation. My faith that good is rewarded and evil is punished collapsed, and from then on, my career and love life withered. My life hit rock bottom. In a daze of prolonged despair, I was hit by a car while crossing the street. As I lay dying, my ex-best-friend came to see me. Her expression was a mixture of pity and wistful reflection. "I always knew you saw yourself as the bigger person, the 'main character,'" she said. "That's why I arranged for you to walk in on us that day..." I died drowning in regret and indignation. When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the scene of the crime. 1 I was lying in the emergency room, my life fading away. A moment ago, the doctor had delivered the grim news: my injuries were too severe. There was nothing more they could do. So this is it, I thought dimly. Then, the soft click-clack of high heels approached. Beth walked in. She was dressed in expensive clothes, her skin glowing and full, looking even younger than she had eight years ago when I’d caught her in my bed. She looked at me with a sorrowful, pitying gaze. "Stella, I never thought you'd end up like this." "Fate is a strange thing, isn't it? After all this time, I'm the one to see you off... Since we have a few minutes, let's call it a confession, just between us." I didn't know why she was here. I tried to turn my head away, too tired to even look at her. But I couldn't move. I was dying. Beth sat down by my bed and sighed dramatically. "I fell in love with Marc the moment I saw him," she began. "But for years, all I could do was watch you two date, get married, watch your life get better and better than mine. A bracelet you bought on a whim was my entire month's salary. I couldn't understand it. We came from similar families, had similar educations, similar looks. Why? Just because you arrived at that coffee shop ten minutes before I did, Marc fell for you and not me?" "So I decided to correct fate myself." "I found a way to sleep with him, but when he woke up, he was filled with regret. He actually offered me money to keep it a secret from you. And even though he couldn't resist sleeping with me a second, then a third time, he was filled with remorse every single time." She chuckled softly. "That just wouldn't do, would it?" "I know you always prided yourself on your 'main character' energy. You always said that if your husband cheated, you wouldn't scream and cry like other women. You'd divorce him immediately and never look back. So, I begged Marc to be with me one last time, and I... deliberately made sure you'd walk in on us." I stared at her, my mind reeling in disbelief. After the divorce, I quickly discovered that the cool, collected demeanor of a 'heroine' was fleeting. The emotional backlash hit hard, and I was tormented day and night by the trauma of being betrayed by the two people closest to me, and the crushing social shame. Later, watching them get married, have children, and build a successful business, their lives flourishing while mine crumbled, was a special kind of torture. Because I no longer trusted in love, I couldn't continue my work as a wedding designer, let alone start a new relationship. The contrast plunged me into a spiral of anxiety, self-loathing, and a shattered belief system. Every day was a fire in my gut, every night sleepless. I thought I was just unlucky, that I was weak. I even despised myself for my inability to recover. I never imagined it was all part of a calculated plot. "So thank you, Stella! You didn't disappoint me. Your pride and composure gave us the dignity we needed. That's why Marc and I were able to bounce back so quickly." "Of course, I should thank myself most of all. I did so much, after all. Imitating your tone and mannerisms for Marc, paying people to get you fired from job after job, and—" She paused, a sly smile spreading across her face. "Going to an international sperm bank ahead of time, picking a donor who looked like Marc, and getting pregnant with twins..." My weak body had no strength left. But her words made my eyes fly open. After I had divorced him so cleanly, Marc had still refused to let go. He had knelt before me, crying that he only loved me, begging for another chance, swearing he would never see Beth again. Until Beth told him she was pregnant with his child... "Anyway, over the next few years, especially after our two beautiful babies were born, Marc became better and better to me. He really, truly fell in love with me!" "Stella, I finally have your life. I changed my own destiny with my own two hands. My only regret was that no one knew. Thank heavens for giving me this chance to tell you everything before you die. Stella, for my honesty, I hope you won't hold it against me in the afterlife. Rest in peace." She rose gracefully, her face beaming with triumphant satisfaction. "Oh, right. You must be wondering how I ended up here?" "My favorite patisserie closes at nine, and my driver was rushing so I wouldn't be disappointed. I hope you won't blame him either. It was an accident. He'll probably be quite traumatized by this. Of course, I'll provide you with legal and reasonable compensation. After all, whatever the amount, hah, it's probably less than the cost of one of my handbags." "It's just..." She tilted her head, feigning a dilemma. "You're all alone now. No family, no one. Who do I even pay the compensation to?" She shook her head, a smile playing on her lips, and walked out, the click-clack of her heels echoing down the hall. My soul screamed as my eyes closed for the last time. ... When I woke up, I was standing at the top of a staircase. Downstairs, I could hear the lively chatter of my friends. From inside the bedroom... Two naked bodies were tangled together, their passionate gasps and moans filling the air. I stood frozen for two seconds, then raised my hand and slapped myself across the face. It stung. Good. The sting was real. The next second, I gathered every ounce of strength in my body and shrieked: "YOU SHAMELESS—" "CHEATING SCUMBAGS!" 2 Two flushed, panting faces whipped around to look at me. The moment Marc saw me, his pupils shrank. A tremor went through him as he finished in a panicked rush. Beth let out a sharp gasp, then pulled the covers over both of them. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. "Stella, wait, don't do anything rash!" "It's all my fault! I seduced Marc! Don't blame him! If you want to hit someone, hit me!" Last time, Beth had said the exact same thing. Back then, I was a successful wedding designer with a happy marriage. For me, love and marriage had to be flawless. If a man was tainted, if his heart had strayed, he was worthless. So, despite my fury, disappointment, and disgust, I had acted like the heroine in a novel. I’d given them a look of pure contempt and coldly tossed out, "He's all yours now." I hadn't even entered the room. I’d just turned and walked away. Now, Beth’s eyes darted towards me, clearly anticipating the same reaction. But this time, I launched myself into the room. First, I grabbed the water kettle from the nightstand and hurled it at Marc's face. After a dull thud, hot water splashed over him, and he screamed, clutching his head. Simultaneously, with the agility of a monkey, I scrambled to Beth's side of the bed. My left foot kicked the pile of clothes on the floor under the bed, while my right foot braced against the mattress. With both hands, I grabbed a fistful of Beth's long hair and yanked with all my might. It was her prized, meticulously cared-for hair. Thick, long, and perfect for getting a good grip. She started this. She would be the first to pay. I twisted my wrist, wrapping her hair tighter, and then, looking at her still-flushed face, I slapped her. Smack, smack, smack, ten times in a row. When one hand started to ache, I switched to the other and delivered ten more. The series of actions was seamless, as if genetically encoded in my very being. Beth was half-dangling off the bed, her earlier seductiveness gone, replaced by a wide-eyed terror as she stared up at me. A continuous, sputtering sound escaped her lips, like a deflating balloon. On so many nights, consumed by the emotional fallout, I had endlessly regretted walking away. Why hadn't I made them face public humiliation right then and there? Why hadn't I broadcast their filthy affair to the world? After countless mental rehearsals, I’d concluded that nothing was more satisfying than slapping faces and pulling hair. So, when the sounds of my screaming drew everyone from downstairs, this was the scene that greeted them— I was pulling Beth's hair like I was in a tug-of-war. Beth, being naked, was desperately clutching the blanket. And Marc, one hand covering his blistering face, was instinctively grabbing the other end of the blanket to cover himself. The three of us were locked in a bizarre, undignified stalemate. Our friends stood at the door, their jaws on the floor. We had all planned a weekend getaway at a rental cabin. I had a last-minute work thing and was supposed to arrive the next day, but Beth had called to tell me Marc had too much to drink. So I'd changed my plans and rushed over. Now, Beth, suspended in mid-air, managed to mumble a plea for help through her swelling, pig-like face. "Help... help me!" No one moved. Disgust and contempt were written all over their faces. It wasn't like this last time. They hadn't seen the act itself, only pieced it together from our expressions and clipped words. Seeing it and not seeing it were two completely different things. The visual impact was a whole different beast. The level of disgust was off the charts. In fact, years later in my previous life, when Marc's business took off and Beth became a wealthy socialite, some of these same people had even sighed in admiration: You two proved that true love conquers all! 3 "Stella, please... just calm down..." Marc's voice trembled. His face and neck were beet red, the handsome features now covered in shiny, weeping blisters. Steam was literally rising from his hair. He looked like a boiled lobster. Years ago, Beth and I had planned to meet at a coffee shop. She was running late, so I opened my laptop to work on my thesis while I waited. Marc, sitting at the next table, had smiled and asked me: "Are you a design student, too?" Beth was ten minutes late. In those ten minutes, Marc and I became so engrossed in conversation that when she finally arrived, I didn't even notice the way her eyes lit up when she saw him. Marc was an exhibition designer. Everyone saw him as a kind, gentle, talented man who was sensitive and soft-hearted. He was the type of person who always carried a small bag of cat food for the strays on the street. But his soft heart was his fatal flaw. In my past life, he had knelt before me, sobbing and confessing. He said Beth had gotten drunk one night and told him she'd been secretly in love with him for years, that she had even saved herself for him. She had cried and said she didn't want a future, just one night. He'd refused her many times, until he found her attempting suicide. In a moment of weakness, he had given in. At the time, the story had filled me with such revulsion that all I wanted was to get as far away from those two as possible. I'd divorced him within a month, splitting our assets quickly and cleanly. Now, however, I only wished I had more than two hands, so I could dig my nails into his face and pop every single one of those blisters. But I couldn't be hasty. This was Beth’s one big shot. If I let her get away, I might not get another. And Marc... Marc had to come home with me. "Calm down? How?" I snarled, glaring at him. His face flushed a deeper red. "Stella, please, just let her go. Let us get dressed, I'm begging you..." I laughed coldly. "You want to play the hero? Fine. Beth and I once swore an oath that if one of us ever betrayed the other, she would get thirty slaps. I've delivered twenty. I'm tired. You can deliver the last ten. Once you're done, I'll let her go." Marc shook his head frantically. "Stella, that's not what I—" "Do it," Beth suddenly sobbed. "I seduced him! I drugged him! I'm the shameless, disgusting one! I'm the homewrecker! It has nothing to do with him! Just do it, my stomach... my back... I can't hold on much longer!" Her voice was pathetic and helpless. It was partly an act for Marc's benefit, but it was also true that she couldn't hold that position for long. After all, she was currently pregnant with twins. Our friends were all crowded in the doorway, occasionally murmuring things like "Don't be rash," and "Let's talk this out." But no one intervened. They were all watching the show with rapt attention. I thought Marc would hesitate. He was, after all, a kind and soft-hearted man. But to my surprise, before Beth had even finished speaking, he shuffled over to her, still wrapped in the blanket. Then, the crisp sound of slapping echoed through the room. One of the slaps was a little too light. I narrowed my eyes, and Marc immediately hit harder. As blood trickled from her nose, Beth's expression flickered with surprise and a hint of pain. But she had planned for this for a long time. She knew her goal. This was the price of admission. After the ten slaps were done, she managed to squeeze out a smile at the panting Marc from her swollen face. "I don't blame you," she mumbled, her words slurred, giving him the look of a tragic heroine being tormented by evil forces. But Marc turned his face away. A few seconds later, he looked at me, his eyes trembling. "Stella... is it enough?" My face was a blank mask. "Of course not. You put this disgusting green hat on my head. If I only punish the other woman and not you, people will think I'm one of those women who only takes it out on her own sex." Marc immediately nodded, closing his eyes and tilting his face up. "Stella, just do it. I just want you to get your anger out. We can talk about everything else when we get home." I looked at the increasingly translucent blisters on his face, imagining them popping and spraying God knows what. I changed my mind. I looked down at Beth. "You do it." She looked shocked, then shook her head miserably. "No... no!" Marc suddenly roared, "Just do it! Get it over with! Anything is better than this!" So, in an awkward, contorted position, Beth began to slap him, her face a mask of sorrow. "Are you two flirting?" I asked. Marc gritted his teeth. "Harder!" When Beth pulled her hand back, I saw it was smeared with a sticky, opaque fluid. The grotesque scene finally ended with Marc and Beth, one wrapped in a blanket and the other in a bedsheet, crawling on the floor to retrieve their clothes from under the bed. My vengeance meter... finally filled up by a tenth. 4 The meltdown was just that—a meltdown. It was about letting out the rage I had suppressed last time for the sake of appearances. But I couldn't spend this new life just losing my mind, could I? So what if I lost face? People would forget. Marc was an independent designer, respected in the art world for his talent and portfolio. An affair wouldn't ruin him; it would just become another colorful story people told about him. I knew Marc better than anyone. The most important thing in his life was his career. In my previous life, he had secured angel investment from an arts-focused venture capital group. He'd founded his own company, become a multi-millionaire, and lived a glamorous life. And Beth had become a wealthy socialite right alongside him.
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