Chapter 3 — The Revenge Blueprint

The Bride

I woke to sunlight slashing through the blinds, streaking harsh golden bars across my bedroom floor. Too cheerful. Too indifferent to the storm brewing inside me. The remnants of last night’s wine glass sat precariously on my nightstand, red droplets staining the rim like a crime scene. My Event Planning Notebook lay open beside it, its usually meticulous pages glaringly blank. A reminder of everything I’d lost—and everything I was about to reclaim.

I swung my legs out of bed, the cool wood floor grounding me for a fleeting moment. Padding to the kitchen, I found Vivienne already there, humming an off-key rendition of some 90s pop ballad while pouring coffee. She was wearing one of my old robes, the belt tied loosely around her waist, her auburn hair a wild mess that somehow looked intentional. She glanced up, grinning as if the world hadn’t ended three days ago.

“Good morning, storm cloud,” she chirped, sliding a steaming mug toward me. “You’ve got the whole brooding anti-heroine thing down. Very chic.”

I ignored her, taking a long sip of the coffee. It was bitter, just the way I liked it. “I need a pen,” I said, my voice hoarse from days of shouting at no one in particular.

Vivienne raised an eyebrow. “A pen? That’s the big emergency?”

I set the mug down harder than necessary. “Yes, a pen. And my notebook. I have work to do.”

Her teasing expression softened, her brow furrowing with concern. “Evie,” she started, leaning against the counter. “You’ve been holed up in here for days. Maybe it’s time to—”

“To what?” I snapped, cutting her off. “Cry it out? Eat my weight in ice cream? Watch rom-coms and pretend they’re anything but lies? No, Viv. I don’t have time to fall apart. I have plans to make.”

She studied me for a long moment, her easy humor replaced by something heavier. “Plans for what, exactly?”

“Justice,” I said, the word sharp as glass. “He doesn’t get to walk away unscathed. Not after what he did.”

Vivienne sighed and opened the junk drawer, pulling out a pen. She handed it to me with a resigned shake of her head. “Fine. But if you start plotting world domination, I’m calling a therapist.”

I took the pen and returned to the living room, where my notebook waited. The sleek leather cover felt solid in my hands, a reminder of who I was before all this—before him. I flipped to a fresh page and wrote, in bold, deliberate letters:

REVENGE PLAN.

The words stared back at me, stark and powerful. My heart pounded in a way that was almost exhilarating. This was better than crying. This was better than wallowing. This was control.

“Step one,” I murmured, tapping the pen against my lips. “Find his weakness.”

Vivienne appeared in the doorway, holding her own coffee mug and watching me like I was a particularly intriguing science experiment. “You know, most people just block their ex on Instagram and call it a day.”

I shot her a look. “Most people didn’t have their lives detonated in front of two hundred people.”

She winced, but didn’t argue. Instead, she perched on the armrest of the couch, her coffee mug balanced on her knee. “So, what’s the plan, Evil Queen?”

I ignored the nickname and started scribbling furiously. “First, I need information. Something I can use to hit him where it hurts. He’s too polished, too careful. There’s got to be something under all that—some crack in the facade.”

Vivienne narrowed her eyes, her teasing tone giving way to something more serious. “And then what? What happens after you find it? You think ruining his life is going to fix this? Fix you?”

Her words landed like a slap, and for a moment, I hesitated. My pen hovered over the page, my chest tightening with something uncomfortably close to doubt. But I pushed it aside. I couldn’t afford doubt.

“This isn’t about fixing anything,” I said, my voice steady again. “This is about balance. He humiliated me, Viv. He lied to me, made me believe in something that was never real. He deserves to pay for that.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then she sighed and reached for my notebook, flipping through the blank pages. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Dead serious.”

She shook her head but handed the notebook back. “Fine. I’ll help. But only because I don’t want you ending up in jail or, worse, on some trashy reality show. So, what’s step two?”

I paused, chewing on the end of the pen. “Step two,” I said slowly, “is making sure I have leverage. If I’m going to do this, I need to hit him hard and fast. No half-measures.”

Vivienne smirked faintly, her humor creeping back. “I’m starting to think you missed your calling as a Bond villain.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “If I were a Bond villain, I’d at least get to wear fabulous dresses while plotting destruction.”

I flipped to a new page in the notebook and started drafting a list of potential angles: his business, his family, his social circle. There had to be something I could exploit, something that would make him regret ever crossing me. And if I couldn’t find it, well, that’s what the PI was for.

“Wait,” Vivienne said, interrupting my thoughts. “Do you even know a private investigator?”

“No,” I admitted. “But I’ve got contacts from my event planning gigs. Someone’s bound to know someone.”

She ran a hand through her hair, groaning. “Evie, come on. You don’t need to turn this into some noir thriller. What happened sucks, okay? It’s awful. But dragging some poor PI into your vendetta isn’t going to make it suck any less.”

“This isn’t just a vendetta,” I said, leaning forward. “This is about finding the truth. There’s more to this, Viv. I can feel it. And I need someone who can dig deeper than I can.”

Her expression softened, but her hesitation lingered. “You really think this is going to help?”

“I have to try,” I said quietly. “Because if I don’t, he wins. And I can’t let that happen.”

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she grabbed her sketchbook from the coffee table and started doodling, the pencil scratching softly against the paper. The familiar sound grounded me, reminding me that I wasn’t completely alone in this.

Hours passed as I worked, the notebook filling with ideas, strategies, and contingencies. By the time I looked up, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the room in warm, golden light. Vivienne had fallen asleep on the couch, her sketchbook resting on her chest. I smiled faintly, grateful for her presence even if she didn’t fully understand what I was doing.

I stood, stretching, and walked to the window. The city skyline glimmered in the distance, a sea of lights and ambition. Somewhere out there, he was probably sitting in his sleek apartment, sipping scotch and congratulating himself on escaping the wedding unscathed. My hands clenched into fists at the thought.

Not for long, I thought, my resolve hardening. Not for long.

I turned back to the notebook, flipping to a fresh page. At the top, I wrote two words:

HIS SECRETS.

It was time to make a call.