Chapter 2 — Unopened Gifts

Emilia

The first thing I noticed was the silence—a heavy, suffocating silence that filled every corner of my apartment. It was the kind of quiet that made the ticking of the clock on the wall sound like gunfire. I stood in the middle of my immaculate living room, surrounded by unopened wedding gifts. Dozens of perfectly wrapped boxes, tied with satin ribbons, lay scattered around me like a taunting army. The delicate, gold-foil wrapping paper caught the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, mocking me with its perfection—a perfection that now felt like a cruel joke.

My fingers brushed the edge of one box, its ribbon so taut it looked ready to snap. For a fleeting moment, I considered opening it. Maybe it would be something beautiful, like a crystal vase or a set of monogrammed towels—symbols of a future I had meticulously planned. But the thought of peeling back that ribbon, of exposing the contents of a box meant for a life that no longer existed, made my chest tighten. My hand recoiled as if the gift were a snake poised to strike.

“Do you want me to open one?” Naomi’s voice broke through the silence, startling me. She was perched on the edge of my white leather sofa, holding a glass of red wine she’d poured without asking. She always did that—acted like my apartment was hers. “Maybe it’s a blender. You could use it to pulverize whatever’s left of Matt Lane’s soul.”

“Ha,” I said flatly, not looking up from the box I was currently glaring at. It was large, wrapped in deep crimson paper with an obnoxiously oversized bow. “I don’t need a blender. I’ve got something sharper.”

Naomi tilted her head, her fiery red bob catching the light. “Oh, good. You’ve already hit the ‘plotting murder’ stage. That was fast.”

I ignored her sarcasm and reached for my gold fountain pen—the one my father had given me when I landed my first major promotion. It had always been a symbol of my success, my control. Now, as I clicked the cap off with a little too much force, it felt like a sword drawn for battle. I grabbed the nearest notepad—hotel stationery from a wedding I’d once attended—and began scribbling furiously.

“Step one,” I muttered under my breath, my words as sharp as the pen’s nib. “Destroy his reputation.”

Naomi leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “Oh, come on, Emilia. You can’t be serious.”

I looked up, my hazel eyes narrowing. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Her lips twitched, like she was debating whether to push me further. “You look like a woman who’s about to torch her ex’s house and then go shopping for marshmallows.”

“Close enough,” I snapped, returning to my list. My handwriting grew messier with each bullet point. Leak those frat party photos. Undermine his professional credibility. Find out who his PR manager is and make their life hell.

Naomi sighed and sank back into the sofa, swirling her wine. “You know, there’s a fine line between vengeance and self-destruction. You’re straddling it in stilettos.”

I slammed the pen down on the coffee table, the sound reverberating through the room. My voice shook, betraying the crack in my composure. “What am I supposed to do, Naomi? Just sit here and let him win? Let him walk away scot-free while I become the punchline of every meme on the internet?”

“You’re not a punchline,” she said, her voice softening. “You’re a person. A brilliant, ambitious, slightly terrifying person. But this…” She gestured to the chaos around us. “This isn’t you.”

I stood abruptly, my heels clicking against the polished hardwood floor as I began pacing. “You don’t understand,” I said, my tone sharp but faltering. “This isn’t just about Matt. It’s about everything. My career, my reputation—everything I’ve built is tied to how people see me. And now, thanks to him, they see me as the woman who got left at the altar. The woman who wasn’t enough.”

The words tasted like ash on my tongue, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. The image of myself standing alone at the altar, surrounded by whispers and flashing cameras, surged forward. My fingers curled around the back of the sofa for support, knuckles white against the leather.

Naomi winced, and guilt tugged at me. She knew what it felt like to be “not enough.” Her own engagement had ended in flames years ago, though she rarely talked about it. Still, she didn’t lash out or wallow. She’d channeled her pain into building her wedding planning business, turning chaos into order for other brides. It was a talent I admired but couldn’t seem to emulate.

“Emilia,” she said gently, standing and crossing the room to me. “You are enough. More than enough. And if Matt couldn’t see that, then he’s an idiot. But you don’t need to burn your life down to prove it.”

I stopped pacing and stared at her, my chest heaving. Her words were kind, but they didn’t land. Not yet. The anger inside me was too raw, too consuming. “I’m not burning my life down,” I said tightly. “I’m taking control of it.”

Naomi’s eyes searched mine, and for a moment, I thought she might argue. But then she sighed and pushed a hand through her hair, her earrings—a bold geometric design in gold and onyx—catching the light. “Fine,” she said, her tone resigned. “If you’re hell-bent on revenge, at least let me help. Someone has to make sure you don’t end up in prison.”

I blinked at her, surprised. “You’re offering to help?”

“Reluctantly,” she said, downing the rest of her wine in one gulp. “But only because I know you’ll do it with or without me. And if you’re going to go full scorched earth, you might as well have someone around to keep you from singeing your eyebrows.”

I couldn’t help it—a small, bitter laugh escaped me. “You’re a terrible influence.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a terrible listener,” she shot back, grabbing the notepad from the coffee table. She scanned my list, her brow furrowing. “Leak embarrassing photos? Spread rumors? That’s amateur hour. You’re better than this.”

I crossed my arms. “So what do you suggest, oh wise one?”

Naomi smirked. “If you’re going to do this, you need to play the long game. Hit him where it hurts most—his image. Dig deeper. Find something that will really make him squirm.”

Her words sent a shiver of satisfaction down my spine. This was why Naomi and I were friends. She understood me in a way few people did. “Fine,” I said, grabbing my pen and adding her suggestions to the list. “But don’t expect me to go easy on him.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, plopping back onto the sofa and reaching for the wine bottle. “But promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“Don’t lose yourself in the process,” she said, her voice unusually serious. “Revenge can be satisfying, sure. But it won’t fix what’s broken.”

For a moment, her words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. I wanted to dismiss them, to brush off her concern as unnecessary. But deep down, a small, nagging part of me wondered if she was right.

“Noted,” I said finally, though I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t ready to let go of my anger. Not yet.

Naomi sighed, her expression a mix of exasperation and affection. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” I said, forcing a smirk.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she raised her glass in a mock toast. “To revenge, then. May it be swift and satisfying.”

“To revenge,” I echoed, clinking my water glass against hers.

But as I sat back down, pen in hand, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this path—satisfying as it might seem—was leading me somewhere I wasn’t ready to go.