Chapter 3 — First Strike
Emma
The internet is a beautiful thing when you’re feeling vengeful. Also, dangerous.
I stared at my laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, the cursor blinking like it was daring me to hit send. My heart thundered against my ribs, and for a moment, I hesitated. Was I really about to do this? The small voice in the back of my mind, the one that sounded suspiciously like my mother’s, whispered caution. What would people think? Would this make me look petty? Weak? I shoved the thought aside, jaw tightening. Luke had left me at the altar in front of 300 people. If anyone deserved a little public humiliation, it was him.
I glanced over at Tasha, sprawled on my pristine white couch like a cat who owned the place. She cradled a wine glass in one hand while scrolling through her phone with the other, her leather jacket casually slung over the armrest.
“This is either going to be the most satisfying moment of your life or the start of a very messy spiral,” she said, raising an eyebrow without looking up.
“Thanks for the confidence boost,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. My fingers drummed against the keys as I glanced at her. “Really inspiring stuff.”
Tasha finally looked up, her sharp, dark eyes glinting behind her glasses. She set her wine down on the glass coffee table, careful not to leave a ring. “Look, I’m here for the chaos. You know I am. But don’t let this consume you, okay? Revenge is like... I don’t know, one of those giant chocolate fountains. Fun at first, but dive in too deep and you’re drowning in sticky regret.”
I snorted despite myself. “That’s some serious Hallmark wisdom.”
“I’m full of it,” she said, smirking. “But seriously, Emma. Just be smart about this.”
The email on my screen was addressed to every partner, associate, and intern at Denham Reese, Luke’s ultra-polished corporate law firm. The subject line: “A Blast from the Past.” Innocuous enough. The real masterpiece was the attachment: a photo from Luke’s college days, unearthed by Tasha’s unparalleled internet sleuthing.
There he was, the golden boy himself, wearing a toga made out of a bedsheet, a garland of plastic leaves askew on his head, holding up a red Solo cup like it was the Holy Grail. His face was flushed, his normally immaculate posture replaced with a sloppy, drunken slouch. It wasn’t scandalous—just embarrassing enough to chip away at his carefully curated image of sophistication and control.
“You sure about this?” Tasha asked, her tone more serious now.
I took a deep breath, my fingers still hovering over the send button. A flicker of doubt rippled through me, and for a split second, I pictured Luke’s reaction. Would he laugh it off? Get angry? Retreat into his office, humiliated? The thought of him squirming was satisfying, but another image followed: Luke sitting at his desk, jaw tight, pretending not to care while his colleagues snickered behind his back. My chest tightened.
Would this actually make me feel better? Or would it just prove how much space he still occupied in my head?
I shook my head, banishing the unease. He deserved this.
“Positive,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt.
And then, I hit send.
The email vanished into cyberspace, and for a moment, the world stayed eerily still, as though it were holding its breath. My chest tightened, anticipation and nerves tangling together. Then, like clockwork, my phone buzzed with a notification.
“Group chat,” I said, grabbing it.
Tasha leaned closer, her cropped leather jacket brushing my arm as she peered over my shoulder. I opened the thread we shared with a few mutual friends.
“Oh my God,” one of them had typed, followed by a string of laughing emojis. “Did you see this?!”
A screenshot of the email and photo was attached below.
“That was fast,” Tasha said, impressed.
“It’s the internet,” I replied with a shrug. “They move at warp speed.”
As the messages poured in—shock, amusement, someone adding a tongue-in-cheek “#TogaGate2023”—I felt a rush of satisfaction. Each notification was like a tiny hit of dopamine, a reminder that I’d regained a sliver of control in the wake of my disaster. My laughter bubbled up unbidden, and for the first time in days, it felt good.
“Okay, I’ll admit it,” Tasha said, raising her glass in a mock toast. “You did good, Carlyle. That photo is comedy gold.”
I clinked my water glass against hers, savoring the fizz of triumph in my chest. But as the initial high began to fade, a flicker of doubt crept in. The image of Luke surrounded by his colleagues, their laughter echoing in his ears, popped into my mind again. He’d probably grit his teeth, force a tight smile, and pretend it didn’t bother him. But I knew him well enough to know it would. Luke hated looking anything less than perfect.
“Alright,” Tasha said, standing up and stretching. “I’m starving. Let’s order pizza.”
“Pineapple?” I asked, already knowing her answer.
“Obviously. And don’t you dare suggest otherwise, you heathen.”
I smirked but reached for my phone to place the order. Tasha wandered into the kitchen, rummaging through my cabinets for snacks while I scrolled through the pizza app. The sound of her movements, the occasional clink of glass against wood, filled the silence.
As I finalized the order, another notification popped up. This time, it was an email—an automated out-of-office reply from one of Luke’s coworkers.
“Thanks for your email,” it read, cheerful and oblivious. “I’m currently out of the office but will return on Monday. If this is urgent…”
I deleted it, feeling a pang of unease.
“What’s with the face?” Tasha asked, returning with a bowl of popcorn.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, setting my phone down. “Just thinking about how much Luke is probably hating this.”
She grinned. “Good. He deserves it.”
“Yeah,” I said, but the doubt lingered.
---
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains of my bedroom, casting a soft glow on the engagement ring box sitting on my dresser. I stared at it for a moment, the faint scent of lavender wafting up as though it were mocking me. That box had once symbolized everything I thought I wanted: love, security, a future. Now, it was just another reminder of how easily things could fall apart.
My phone buzzed with a fresh flood of group chat messages. Most were still reveling in the aftermath of the email, but one caught my eye.
“Anyone else feel like this was kinda…harsh?”
My stomach twisted.
“Harsh?” someone else replied. “He ditched her at the altar. He deserves worse.”
“True, but still. Feels a little…petty.”
Petty. The word stuck like a burr, irritating and unshakeable. I closed the chat and tossed my phone onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Petty wasn’t the right word. Strategic. Controlled. Calculated. That’s what this was. Petty implied I’d done it out of spite, without thought or purpose.
Except…hadn’t I?
I shook my head and pushed the thought aside. This wasn’t the time for self-reflection. This was the time for action.
---
Later that day, as I sat at my desk flipping through my event planner, Tasha called.
“Have you seen it?” she asked, her tone a mix of excitement and apprehension.
“Seen what?”
“Check your email.”
I opened my inbox, and there it was—an all-staff memo from Denham Reese.
“To all team members,” it began, “we would like to remind you that professional conduct extends to all forms of communication, including email. Please refrain from sharing personal or inappropriate content within the workplace. Thank you for your cooperation.”
I could practically hear the collective groan of the firm’s employees as they read it.
“Well,” Tasha said, “they’re definitely blaming him for this.”
“Good,” I replied, but my voice lacked the conviction I’d hoped for.
“Emma,” she said, her tone softening, “you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “I’m fine.”
But as I hung up and stared at the memo, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d crossed a line.
The engagement ring box sat on my dresser, its navy velvet exterior catching the light. I walked over, picked it up, and opened it. The inside was empty, of course, but the faint scent of lavender still lingered, a ghost of a memory I couldn’t quite shake.
I snapped it shut and set it back down, as though that would keep the emotions it stirred at bay.
This wasn’t about Luke. Not really. This was about me—about proving that I wasn’t the broken, humiliated woman he’d left behind.
But as I sat there, the weight of the box in my hand, I couldn’t shake the feeling that no amount of revenge would fill the void he’d left.
Still, it didn’t mean I was going to stop trying.
