Chapter 22
AVA
I stare down at the man who used to be my entire world.
Roman is on his knees, crumpled in front of me, his massive shoulders shaking with sobs, his fingers curled around mine so tight I think I’ll bruise. And for once, I don’t care if I do.
Because I want him to hurt.
The silence in the room is horrible, broken only by the ragged sound of his breathing and the echo of the words he just said.
I’ll do anything.
I used to live for those words. Back when they were whispered with promises, laughter, and lust. Back when he meant them. But now? He is throwing them out like last-ditch attempts to glue something back together he shattered himself.
I stare at the man on the floor, this giant of a human who everyone sees as indestructible. But right now? He’s just a broken boy who finally got caught playing with fire.
And now he’s burned.
I look at him for a long time. At the mess he’s made. At the man who ruined me. And I make a decision.
He’s going to pay. Properly. Publicly. Painfully .
I pull my hand free.
He doesn’t fight me on it, he just drops his head, like even the feel of my skin was a privilege he’s no longer worthy of.
“Roman.” My voice is calm. Scarily calm. “Get up.”
He lifts his head, eyes red and swollen. “Ava, please?—”
“I said get up .”
He stands slowly, every inch of his tall frame weighed down with guilt. His eyes beg me for something—redemption, maybe. Forgiveness. But he’s not getting either.
I don’t respond. I leave the room and close the door behind me.
In the quiet of the study, I finally let the cold calculation settle in. Roman thinks this is rock bottom?
He has no idea.
I boot up my laptop, fingers already flying across the keys. My contacts from college come to mind—particularly the one who runs that influencer gossip page with a following large enough to wreck someone’s image in less than twenty-four hours. I send her a message:
Got a story for you. I can give you texts—real ones. Screenshots. Proof. Do you want it?
The reply is instant.
Always. Drop it here.
So I do. Texts from Annie to Roman. Screenshots I’d taken when I was wallowing in grief, back when my stomach had been sick and my heart had still wanted to believe it was all a mistake.
Texts like:
She doesn’t need to know.
You’re too hot to be stuck with just one woman.
Let her play house while you play with me.
And the one that twists like a knife every time I read it:
You’re married, not dead. Just leave her.
God, I loved sucking your cock. Does your wife know I swallow every drop? Tell her, please. Tell her I do it better.
She’s playing the victim now, but the whole world needs to see the truth—she was sleeping with a married man, and she knew it.
But that’s not what she told the world, is it?
While I was crying a fucking ocean over my husband’s betrayal, she was spinning stories about how in love they were, how they couldn’t help it.
How sorry she was for me. But these messages show otherwise.
The influencer responds with a shocked emoji, then another message:
Holy shit. You want credit? Or anonymous?
Anonymous, I type.
I want the world to know what Annie really is. But I don’t want her to know it came from me. I want her to wonder. I want her to spiral.
I send another message.
Check her sponsor list. She’s still tagging some of the brands in stories. They won’t want to be associated with this.
By the next morning, the first post is up. A carousel of the worst messages, her handle tagged for visibility. A poll at the end:
Would YOU support a woman who knowingly wrecked a marriage?
The comments explode in real-time. People are calling her a homewrecker. Others tag her sponsors. Screenshots shared across social media.
And I smile.
She’s not just losing followers—she’s haemorrhaging them. Brands start making statements. One cuts ties by lunchtime. Another says they’re "reassessing the partnership." Her rented place in Beverly Hills—the one she flaunted online—goes up for listing by the end of the week.
She posts a story trying to cry, but her fake lashes are still perfect, and she’s got a fucking filter on. The comments are brutal:
Nasty bitch.
You’re only sorry because you got caught.
You’re so ugly.
Married men aren’t free game, sweetheart.
I watch it all unfold while drinking a coffee Roman used to make for me every morning. I scroll with one hand and stir my creamer with the other, the bitter satisfaction growing with every refresh.
Roman walks past the kitchen, head low, not saying a word. He must’ve seen it too.
He must know those screenshots came from his own phone, but he hasn’t said a word. Maybe because deep down, he knows he deserves every second of this.
I keep my poker face.
That afternoon, I find myself driving through the winding streets of West Hollywood with a purpose.
Annie has developed predictable habits since her world began crumbling—she goes to the same coffee shop on Sunset Boulevard, the same corner table positioned perfectly for people-watching while she monitors the digital wreckage of her reputation.
I’m surprised she can still afford coffee.
I spot her through the floor-to-ceiling windows before I even park.
She's hunched over her phone, those oversized Chanel sunglasses doing little to disguise the tension radiating from her shoulders.
The beige trench coat wrapped around her tiny frame looks designer—probably purchased during those golden weeks when my husband was financing her lifestyle with promises and lies.
Her fingers move frantically across her screen, and I can practically see the devastation reflected in whatever notifications she's consuming.
The coffee shop maintains that effortless Los Angeles aesthetic—exposed brick, succulents scattered across reclaimed wood tables, the kind of place where influencers once gathered to document their perfectly curated lives.
Now it serves as Annie's refuge, though even here she can't escape the consequences of her choices.
I push through the glass doors, allowing my heels to create a deliberate rhythm against the polished concrete floors.
The sound carries just enough authority to turn a few heads, though I maintain my composure as I approach the counter.
The barista, a young woman with intricate tattoos covering her forearms, recognizes me immediately but has the professionalism to simply smile and take my order for black coffee without commentary.
With my drink in hand, I navigate through the scattered tables until I'm standing directly beside Annie's. She's so absorbed in her digital nightmare of a life that she doesn't notice my presence until I speak.
"Do you mind if I sit?" My voice carries the kind of pleasant warmth that could easily be mistaken for genuine friendliness.
Her head snaps up, and even through those dark lenses, I can see the shock register across her features. Her mouth parts slightly, as if she's forgotten how to form words in the face of this unexpected confrontation.
" Ava ?" The name escapes her lips like a whispered confession.
I settle into the chair across from her with the grace of someone who owns every room she enters, crossing my legs and maintaining that serene smile that has served me well through countless charity galas and team events.
"Relax. I'm not here to throw a drink in your face, though I understand that might be the more suitable approach. Lord knows you deserve it."
Her entire body goes rigid, fingers tightening around her iced drink until I worry the plastic might crack under the pressure. "Do you think this is funny?"
I take a measured sip of my coffee, allowing the silence to stretch between us until it becomes uncomfortable.
"Not at all. I think it's sad, actually.
Watching a woman with so much potential choose to build her empire on someone else's foundation instead of creating something authentic and lasting. "
"You think I deserve this?" Her voice wavers between defiance and desperation.
I study her face, noting the way her jaw trembles slightly and how her free hand fidgets with the edge of her coat. "I think actions have consequences, Annie. I find it almost poetic that the truth has a way of surfacing all on its own, regardless of how deeply we try to bury it."
Her eyes narrow behind those sunglasses, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her mind as she processes my carefully chosen words. "Do you think I don't know this came from you?"
I tilt my head with the kind of innocent curiosity that mothers perfect when their children attempt elaborate lies. "You think I would waste my time and energy on you when I have so many other priorities demanding my attention?"
The flush that spreads across her cheeks is visible even beneath whatever foundation she's applied to hide the sleepless nights. "You're fucked up."
"And you're the woman my husband is on his knees begging me to forgive him for," I reply smoothly. "Literally sobbing , actually. Telling me how pathetic and meaningless you were. A mistake. That you'll never be what I am to him." I lean forward slightly. "And now you're homeless."
She pushes back from the table with enough force to make her chair scrape against the floor, drawing curious glances from nearby patrons. Her hand trembles as she grabs her drink, and for a moment, I think she might actually throw it at me.
I fucking dare you, bitch.
"You'll regret this," she manages through gritted teeth.
I lean back in my chair, completely unmoved by her threat. "I doubt it."
She storms toward the exit with the kind of dramatic flair that probably served her well in her influencer days, but now simply looks desperate and unhinged.
The door closes behind her with more force than necessary, leaving me alone at the table with my coffee and the satisfaction that comes from a job well done.
I finish my drink at a leisurely pace, savouring both the rich flavour and the silence that follows her departure.
My smile grows with each sip, and I can't help but appreciate the irony of the situation—sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone is show them exactly who they really are, even when that revelation destroys them completely.
Right now, Annie is drowning in the consequences of her choices, and I'm not throwing her a lifeline.
I’ll toss her a brick.
That night, I sit in my room, the door locked, my laptop open.
There’s a request in my inbox—from a podcast called Femme & Fierce . They want to interview me.
Not about Roman.
About me .
My heart skips.
It’s about rebuilding my confidence. About finding strength after betrayal.
And god, does that idea thrill me.
I haven’t responded yet.