Chapter 3 — Petty Sabotage

Charlotte

It started with his gym membership.

The satisfaction I felt when I clicked “cancel” on the webpage was fleeting, but it was there—sharp and sweet as the first sip of a perfectly chilled wine. I imagined Daniel’s face when he arrived at the pristine, high-end fitness club he frequented—where he probably flashed that perfectly rehearsed smile at the receptionist—and was turned away. A petty victory, perhaps, but a victory nonetheless.

Petty was just fine with me.

The laptop hummed softly on my knee, precariously balanced as I sat cross-legged on my sleek gray couch. My apartment was its usual picture of order: a vase of white tulips on the coffee table, the muted scent of lavender from the diffuser wafting through the air. And yet, in the corner, the wedding dress disrupted it all. Crumpled and abandoned, its ivory silk shimmered faintly in the late afternoon light, a cruel reminder of everything I’d lost. I caught myself staring at it again. My fingers tightened around the wineglass in my hand, the stem cold and firm against my skin.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table, breaking the spell.

Emily: *What are you up to?*

I smirked as I typed back.

Me: *Just being the bigger person.*

A quick sip of wine, then I opened another tab. Next up: his favorite coffee shop. Daniel’s morning routine was as predictable as the sunrise. Every day, without fail, he stopped by Bean Barrel for a triple-shot Americano with oat milk. It was part of his carefully curated image: busy, efficient, a man of taste who didn’t have time for frills but cared enough to order oat milk.

I pulled up their website, ordered a $300 gift card under his name, and sent it to a random email address I created on the spot. By the time he realized the card was useless, he’d likely already embarrassed himself once or twice.

Petty was very, very fine with me.

The sound of keys jingling outside my door caught my attention. Moments later, Emily burst in without knocking—because *boundaries* were apparently optional in our friendship—carrying a brown paper bag that smelled suspiciously like croissants.

“You’re spiraling,” she announced, kicking the door shut with her foot.

“Good morning to you too,” I said dryly, closing my laptop as she dropped onto the couch next to me.

She handed me a croissant before tearing into one herself. “Seriously, Charlie. What are you doing?”

“Sabotage,” I said lightly, taking a bite of the croissant. “It’s therapeutic.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Canceling his gym membership isn’t therapeutic. It’s—what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh, right. Unhinged.”

“It’s harmless,” I countered. “And it makes me feel better. What’s the harm in that?”

“The harm,” she said, gesturing dramatically with her half-eaten croissant, “is that you’re putting all this energy into *him*. He’s not worth it.”

I stared at her for a moment, chewing slowly, letting her words settle. “I don’t disagree,” I said finally. “But right now, it’s not about him. It’s about me.”

Emily’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds like something you’d say right before burning his house down.”

I tilted my head, frowning slightly. “If I wanted to burn his house down, I’d do it in a way that couldn’t be traced back to me.”

“That is *not* the reassuring response I was hoping for,” she said, exasperated.

I set the croissant down on the coffee table and leaned back, crossing my arms. “Look, Em. You know me. I’ve spent my whole life building this…perfect little world. The perfect career, the perfect apartment, the perfect relationship—or so I thought. And then he blew it all up. In front of everyone.”

Her expression softened as her gaze flicked toward the dress in the corner. “Charlie…”

“I just…” I shook my head, the words catching in my throat. “I need to do something. I need to feel like I’m not just sitting here, letting him get away with it. Even if it’s stupid. Even if it’s petty.”

Emily sighed, tucking her legs underneath her as she leaned against the couch. “Okay. Fine. I get it. But can you at least promise me you won’t do anything that’ll get you arrested? Or, I don’t know, attract the attention of someone worse than Daniel?”

“I promise,” I said solemnly, holding up three fingers in a mock Scout’s honor.

She didn’t look convinced.

We spent the next hour eating croissants and scrolling through Daniel’s social media. Well, *I* was scrolling. Emily was mostly making snarky comments about his posts.

“Oh, look,” she said, pointing at a photo. “Another inspirational quote over a sunset. ‘Success is not final, failure is not fatal: It is the courage to continue that counts.’” She snorted. “What a jackass.”

“Winston Churchill,” I said absently, clicking on the comments.

“What?”

“It’s a Winston Churchill quote,” I said. “He didn’t write it. He probably Googled ‘motivational quotes’ and picked the first one that popped up.”

Emily shook her head. “Why did you ever date this guy?”

“Because I thought he was perfect,” I said bitterly.

She didn’t respond to that, and I didn’t blame her. What could she say that I hadn’t already told myself a hundred times in the past week?

Scrolling through his feed, I felt a familiar knot of anger tighten in my chest. The photos were nauseatingly polished, every post carefully curated to project the image of a man who had it all: the fancy car, the designer suits, the glamorous parties. And yet, he’d left me standing at the altar like I was nothing.

Then I saw it—a new profile photo.

Daniel, smiling that infuriatingly charming smile, his arm draped casually around the shoulders of a woman I didn’t recognize. She was stunning, with dark hair and a coy smile, and she looked like she belonged in his world.

My stomach tightened. The wineglass felt suddenly heavy in my hand.

“Who’s that?” Emily asked, leaning over to look at the screen.

I shook my head, my voice sharper than I intended. “No idea. But I’m going to find out.”

Emily frowned, studying me carefully. “Charlie, maybe this is where you stop. You’re heading down a road you can’t walk back from.”

But I couldn’t stop. Not now. Seeing her—seeing *them*—ignited something in me, a fury hotter and sharper than anything I’d felt before. My petty little campaign suddenly felt inadequate.

Later that night, after Emily had left and the apartment was quiet again, I stared at the wedding dress in the corner. It was still beautiful, even crumpled and abandoned. A part of me wanted to pick it up, smooth out the wrinkles, and hang it back in the closet. But I didn’t.

Instead, I reached for the antique lighter sitting on the coffee table, flicking it open and closed as the room dimmed into shadows.

Then I poured myself another glass of wine and opened my laptop.

I wasn’t done yet.