Revenge10 min read
"You brought trouble into my life? Fine — I’ll bring you down."
ButterPicks15 views
I woke to a voice as sharp as broken glass.
“You’re seven months pregnant and you don’t even know?”
My brain felt like it had been struck by lightning. Pregnant? Me? With my body that doctors had told me was infertile? The odds had been a joke in my head until the paper on the desk told a different truth.
The clinic door burst open. People flooded in.
“My daughter is carrying someone else’s child? Get an abortion now!” my father barked, his palm slapping the table with the force of a judge’s gavel.
“An agreement with the Lombardo family is at stake,” my mother said, voice wobbling between greed and fear. “You owe us obedience.”
They were my parents in name. Their faces were familiar; their hearts were not. I looked at them as if I were reading a list of liabilities. I had no tolerance left for unquestioned obedience.
Then the other woman swept in, white dress, practiced sorrow on her face, false modesty like perfume. Kimora Espinoza — my stepmother’s daughter — gave my belly a glance that could curdle milk. Her eyes were sharp knives, full of calculation.
“You thought you could come back and make a claim?” she whispered, venom wrapped in honey. “You thought you could take from me?”
She had bought drugs, hired people. She had plans. She had put me into a situation that led to that night with Gabriel Lombardo — the only thing that had ever knocked me off my feet and into something irretrievable. A ring, a lie, a stolen moment in darkness. I woke up with no memory and a ring gone. They put me back in a taxi, and my world fell away.
I smiled. It was a smile without warmth.
“Whoever contracted marriage should marry who they contracted,” I said. “I’m not marrying anyone.”
My stepmother’s face lost color. Kimora laughed thinly. “You’ll ruin everything! We took a dowry!”
“Fine,” I said. I slapped the lab report across the table. “Tell the Zhaos I’m carrying triplets. Let them triple the dowry. Give them a surprise.”
My mother’s mouth opened, shut. “You ungrateful—”
“You took everything from me,” I said quietly. “You left me for dead. Don’t lecture me on gratitude.”
The scene ended with my mother lunging, Kimora shrieking, “Blood! She’s bleeding!” But the panic was their invention. I walked out. I left them with their scripts.
Five years later, the airport smelled of coffee and engine oil and possibilities. Two small bodies fidgeted at my side. Fletcher Cotton, my solid little soldier, and Alana Cannon, my blossom, tugged on my sleeves. They called me “Mom” with the casual certainty of children who had never known otherwise. They were mine. Both were alive because someone — Bennett Lange — had come at the last minute with a scalpel and a steadier hand than my own family had ever shown.
“Mommy, will Daddy come?” Alana asked, plump cheeks upside-down.
I brushed her braid. “No, honey. Daddy’s the kind of thing malls sell in sale packages.”
Fletcher rolled his eyes. “Mom — stop selling daddies like discounts.”
We were near a pastry counter when a woman in white dress barrelled into us. The donut flew from Alana’s hand and landed on the floor.
“Mommy! It fell!” she wailed.
I turned. Kimora Espinoza stood there, chocolate smeared on the hem of her dress. Her expression had all the practiced cruelty of a queen dropped into public.
“You blind?” she snapped. “Keep your kid under control.”
Fletcher stepped forward. “You hit my sister.”
Kimora’s smile sharpened. “You’re making things up. How dare you accuse me?”
Her goons — a row of suited people — shuffled forward. I shrugged. “Go ahead. Touch them.”
A man advanced and shoved me. I caught his wrist, twisted. A soft crack and a grunt later, he lay on the floor. My leg struck another and the next man doubled over. In ten seconds the suits were on the floor like a bad magic trick.
Kimora lunged for Alana. Her nails glinted. Fletcher’s small foot flicked a toy. It slid under Kimora’s heel. The lace screamed. Her skirt split. She froze, face white, the sound of rip and shame bleeding all over her.
“Who touches them?” I said, holding her wrist in an iron clamp. I felt the world tighten. “Who gave you a right?”
She squealed, and the poor pretence fell away when a bone under her fingers snapped with a soft, obscene sound.
“No— don’t you dare—” she shrieked.
Someone nearby pulled out a phone. Bystanders surrounded us. They pointed. They took photos.
“It’s the mistress,” one woman hissed. “She’s a homewrecker!”
“She hit a child!” someone else said. Voices rose, condensing into a mob of public judgment.
A black car idled in the parking lot, windows dark as night. Inside sat Gabriel Lombardo. He looked through the glass at us: tall, cold, and utterly uninterested — until the child on his lap piped up.
“Daddy, she hit my friend!” Lorenzo — Gabriel’s son with Kimora — had been entertaining himself in the car. He tilted, blinked. For a moment his father’s eyes softened.
“Teach them not to touch other people’s children,” Gabriel said quietly.
I didn’t return his gaze. He already had my file open in the laptop of his assistant, who had emailed his private security two minutes earlier: Emelia Singh, M.D. — Specialist, EWA. The name the world had given me, the one that had cost me my privacy and offered, at times, salvation.
You learn quickly, when you come back to a place that once betrayed you. You watch. You record. You wait.
“You hurt my children,” I said. “Leave us alone.”
Kimora spat, “My husband— will—”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. Her husband — the man she manipulated, the rich man she’d bent toward her — stood now at the car window. Gabriel’s presence changed everything.
“Don’t touch them again,” he said. His tone was flat. “Ever.”
She lowered her eyes, suddenly small. The crowd’s mood shifted like weather: curiosity, then disgust. Someone called the building’s security. Someone else demanded an apology. Kimora’s face went a hundred shades.
That night I checked into the presidential suite of the hotel my brother paid for. I had two children and one mission: find the third. Find what had been stolen and take back everything they thought they’d buried.
A phone buzzed. Bennett Lange’s voice through the line: “Don’t get sentimental. The Lombardos are involved. Keep your head.”
“Always,” I said. “I have to find that child.”
“You’re not the only one,” Bennett answered. “Gabriel’s asking. He wants you found.”
I snorted. “Maybe he wants answers. Maybe he wants his son back from the stepmother.”
“Or maybe he’s just curious,” he said dryly.
“Curiosity is a bad reason to ruin someone’s life,” I muttered.
Bennett laughed. “Then do it for better reasons.”
The day of Kimora’s celebration — her so-called “victory” over me, her public coronation as Gabriel’s partner — arrived with the kind of heat that makes people more honest. I arrived because I had to. I walked into the room and saw white gowns, champagne, and eyes fixed on the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a man’s voice boomed. “Welcome.”
They were ready to toast Kimora. They wanted to polish shoes of approval. I stood in the back, a shadow with two children folded beside me like punctuation.
“Emelia?” Martina Murphy — my friend, small-eyed and trembling — found me. “Are you sure you want to be here?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
The giant screen flicked to life. Kimora smiled for the cameras. Her father finished a speech about virtue and duty. The crowd applauded.
Then I played the tape.
“Watch,” I said. I turned the volume up. The recorded conversation filled the room like acid.
“You make her disappear after,” a woman’s voice said. “Give her the money. She’ll leave and never come back.”
“You’ll be set for life,” another voice promised.
The image showed Kimora and a doctor conspiring in a dim hallway — a plan to take a woman out, to remove a problem and sell silence. It played again. The room first froze. Then a slow sound began: a collective intake of breath.
Kimora’s porcelain mask contracted. Her smile crumpled. People murmured.
“That’s staged,” Kimora hissed. “That’s a fake—”
“It’s you,” the recorded voice said. “Do you not remember?”
She looked like someone learning to swim only to discover the water was acid. Her companions tried to laugh, then stuttered. Her father’s expression shifted — first anger, then calculation, then the light of betrayal.
“Who gave you that?” he asked, voice raw.
“Someone who remembered,” I said.
The room tilted. Reporters charged forward like wolves. Lights flashed. Phones recorded. The greased gears of rumor turned into a furious machine.
“Kimora Espinoza, you conspired to harm my sister,” I said, each word a measured blade. “You hired people to drug her. You planned to erase her. You tried to buy away the consequences.”
Her hands went to her face. “I — you’re lying. That doctor— that recording—”
“I have originals,” I said. “I have receipts. I have bank transfers.”
The faces around her hardened. Those who had once laughed now leaned forward like jury members.
“You thought you could frame me,” I said. “You thought your family would bury the truth. But here we are.”
Her father dropped his mask. Rafael Jesus — self-made and cruel when his fortunes mattered — stepped forward. “Emelia, how dare you—”
“How dare I tell the truth?” I shot back. “How dare you accept lies and reward hate?”
Cameras zoomed to capture his face twisting. The lights were merciless. The guests’ whispers rose into a storm.
“You are not a victim,” a journalist said into a microphone. “You’re a murderer’s accomplice.” The words struck a bell. The room swayed.
Kimora’s voice, once authoritative and smooth, now fractured. “This is— blackmail!”
“Oh? Then why did you pay the doctor?” I asked. “Why did you transfer funds? Why did you plan the night?”
Heat crawled up her throat. She clutched at her chest. Her loyal attendees dissolved into a crowd of critics. A woman in pearls threw a napkin in disgust. A man demanded police.
“Call the police,” Kimora cried. “This woman is lying!”
“Call them,” I said calmly. “They already have. Someone preserved everything. You destroyed lives and expected silence. You can’t buy that back now.”
Security moved in. Cameras captured her pleading. The directors at Gabriel Lombardo’s side listened quietly, then turned their attention to Rafael Jesus.
“You betrayed your daughter,” a voice said. “You traded a human life for favor.”
That was the seed. The crowd’s temper turned into weather. People who had smiled now scorned. Phones captured the moment Kimora’s world collapsed into a courtroom of public opinion.
Her performance dissolved. She stooped, trembling, then crawled. “Please—” she begged.
“Please what?” I asked. “Apologize? Pay for profit that came from a bribe? Admit that you would end another woman’s life for comfort?”
She looked up. The glare from the lighting rigs turned her face into something small and animal. “I— I didn’t mean—”
“Do it,” said Rafael Jesus, voice cracking. But his eyes were not on Kimora — they were on me.
“Dad?” Kimora cried.
“You made me promise to protect our name,” Rafael snapped. “You forgot the cost.”
Kimora’s knees buckled. She started to sob. People stepped closer. They recorded. They blurted comments like verdicts.
“You knew a doctor,” a reporter yelled. “You had recordings destroyed. You bribed others.”
Her circle closed in. Her supporters backed away. A woman who had been ready to give her a toast now whispered into a phone: “Do not hire her. She’s toxic.”
Kimora’s expression moved through my list of required changes: from smugness to disbelief, from denial to terror, from pleading to collapse. Her skin lost color. Her mascara ran. She beat at the air with open palms like a trapped bird.
People clapped. Some clapped in relief, like it was theater and they had seen justice performed. Others applauded with glee, as if they had been waiting for a spectacle. Cameras broadcasted the collapse live.
Rafael Jesus reached for her and Kimora recoiled. “You cost us our dignity,” he spat. “You spend what we give you and forget the rest.”
The crowd’s reactions varied: some filmed, some muttered, some began to chant for the police. Kimora begged on her knees. Her fiancé — the man she had used as a shield — looked on as if seeing her for the first time. He was not kind.
“You used people,” he said quietly. “I cannot put you above victims.”
The public punishment unfurled like a long, slow punishment. It went on: accusations, retracting supporters, the press flash, the faint sound of Sirens in the far distance, her father’s cold turn from protector to accuser. I watched the changes in her face — triumph to horror, disbelief to pleading, denial to collapse. I watched the crowd go from gossip to court.
When the police finally arrived, Kimora’s vocal protests had been whittled down to whimpers. People clicked their phones, uploaded the footage, and began to share the sequence of events that would run across feeds and news channels.
She had tried to make me vanish. Instead, she vanished from favor.
“You ruined my life,” she sobbed quietly, the room now dense with the smell of spilled wine and humiliated pride.
“You tried,” I said. “And you failed.”
They took her away. Her steps were clumsy, like a puppet led by a sudden hand. The crowd dissolved into chatter. On the way out, a reporter shoved a microphone.
“Ms. Espinoza,” they said. “Any comment?”
“No,” Kimora said, voice gone. “No comment.”
The cameras followed her like wolves. People took sides. Some scolded me for making a spectacle. Others thanked me for preventing a life from being broken. Rafael Jesus had the look of a man who had lost not only dignity but the illusion that money could patch everything.
That day, the public punishment was not just about humiliation. It was a slow, careful unmasking. Witnesses replayed the tapes. A doctor admitted he had been paid. Bank transfers glowed like a paper trail in the light. The people who had once toasted Kimora now scoured their contacts, severing ties. A fiancé once proud now stood alone with his son and a ring that had lost its shine.
When it was over, I left the hall with two small hands threaded through mine and a quiet sense of closure you can only get by watching lies combust.
“Will we be okay?” Alana asked quietly.
“We will be more than okay,” I answered.
“The world saw them,” Fletcher said. “They watched.”
“Yes,” Gabriel said from the shadow of the doorway. He had watched the whole scene from the sidelines. His expression was unreadable. “They saw.”
The rest of the weeks were a messy trail of revelations. Kimora’s other schemes tumbled down like a house of cards. Her father’s reputation eroded. My father’s cruelty became gossip in restaurants. Their friends peeled off. The stepmother’s schemes were exposed next, a different kind of punishment: assets frozen, public condemnation, her business partners withdrawing.
I had my revenge, yes, but not for the sake of cruelty. For the sake of my children and for the truth. I reclaimed what they had tried to take.
Months later, in the quiet that followed, I stood in a nursery. There were toys, a small hospital bracelet pinned to a bulletin board, the faint blue ring Gabriel had once dropped on a quitter’s night when he left. The blue ring felt like a relic of an old war I’d been dragged into.
“I’m not here for you,” I told him once when he asked. “I am here for them.”
He looked at the children, then at me, then at the ring. “We will do whatever is necessary,” he said. “For the kids.”
“Then we start honest,” I said.
He nodded.
That ring — small, cold, and useless — sat in my palm. It had been an invitation and a wound. I placed it in a box and shut the lid. It was not a promise. It was simply evidence: of one night, one mistake, one intersection that changed everything.
We built a life around the children, not around the ring. The world watched. The world gossiped. But in the nursery, flour on the counters and crayons on the floor, something grew steadier each day: trust, small and stubborn.
I had come home to collect what was left of my life. I left with more than I expected: two warm hands in mine, a friend who saved me, and the knowledge that when people decide to do wrong, the spectacle of their undoing will be public. It must be — so their cruelty can be seen for what it is.
The End
— Thank you for reading —