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I did not cry. I didn't scream. I didn't make the scene I probably expected. I just watched him with a smile that hid the storm brewing inside me.
Because at that moment I decided that I would not be the woman who was cheated on. I would be something else. It would be his worst mistake.
It was days before I acted. I watched, I waited, I calculated. I discovered everything: times, places, hidden messages on his phone.
Every detail of his hidden life I wrote down with surgical precision. And then, when I least expected it, I attacked. Not with yelling and screaming, but with something much more certain: his stability.
First, I sold his beloved car, the one in my name. I posted it on the internet and gave it to the highest bidder. Then, I transferred the money to an account I could never trace.
Then I did something I knew would destroy him: I called his boss and told him about his relationship with the secretary.
His world began to crumble. He lost his job, his car, his reputation. But that wasn't enough to quench my thirst for revenge. I started sending anonymous letters to his family and friends, revealing his darkest secrets.
Every time I saw him, his gaze reflected the terror of not knowing what blow awaited him. He had lost control of his life, and I was the orchestrator of his downfall.
Finally, when he was on the verge of madness, I decided to give him the coup de grâce. One night, as he slept, I snuck up on him and placed a pillow over his face.
His eyes snapped open in panic as he struggled to breathe. I smiled, enjoying every second of her agony, until finally she lay still.
I was no longer the woman who had been cheated on. I had become her worst nightmare.
