I straightened up and gave her a small smile that wasn’t kind.
“You wanted my house,” I said quietly.
Then I tilted my head, like I was genuinely curious.
“How’s it working out?”
Olivia’s face burned red.
Her lips trembled.
But she didn’t answer.
Because she couldn’t.
I walked past her, pushing open the doors to the parking lot.
And the cold air hit my face like freedom.
That night, Daniel cooked dinner at my place.
He wasn’t a chef.
But he tried.
And I loved him for it.
We ate pasta and drank wine and laughed at how the sauce almost burnt.
At one point, he reached across the table, brushed my hair behind my ear, and said:
“You look lighter.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
He smiled.
“Like you’re not carrying something anymore.”
I felt tears sting my eyes, unexpected, but not painful.
Because he was right.
I wasn’t carrying them anymore.
They were carrying themselves.
And that was their punishment.
A year later, Daniel and I held a small wedding.
Nothing extravagant.
Just close friends, soft music, warm lights, and the feeling that I was finally safe.
And when I stood there in my simple dress, looking at Daniel’s steady eyes…
I realized something.
The best revenge wasn’t watching Olivia suffer.