What appears to be may not be.
Devastating indeed is betrayal—a stunning quality of homo sapiens.
Life was once a bed of roses, soft and delightful , when you didn't yet know how to speak, crazy right?
The moment you learn the language of people, reality shifts—
Suddenly it becomes jagged and bitter and true.
"I feel like you're being too naive," Marie said, her voice flat. "Maybe he isn't so bad after all…"
"Or maybe he is."
Charlotte let out a short, cynical laugh, resting her chin on her fist.
The flicker of her eyes said more than words. That wasn't just sarcasm—it was a warning.
Who knows what fuels him?
Revenge or love? Or something more dangerous—something in between.
The phone buzzed. Again. Then again.
Charlotte didn't even blink. Twenty calls in the span of ten minutes. Her notifications looked like red flags waving furiously at her face, but she didn't care. Not yet.
Only after the twentieth ring did she casually pick up.
"Charlotte, what is this behavior?"
Ryan's voice came clipped, polite—but the edge was unmistakable. "We don't have time to play games. First, you refuse to come dress shopping with me, and now you're ignoring the pictures I've been sending?"
He was doing his best not to lose control. But he was close.
Charlotte's lips curled mischievously.
"These are not my type," she said with a mock pout. "I'd rather wear pajamas. Comfort comes first."
The smile that crept across her face was wicked—deliberate.
"Are you out of your mind—"
Click. She ended the call.
There was a knock at the door.
Of course it was her mother,
"Sweetheart, what are you up to?" her voice came with gentle concern, but there was something else in it.
A tightness.
"Nothing," Charlotte sighed.
Her mother sat beside her, eyes scanning her face as if looking for cracks. She fixated on Charlotte's olive eyes—the ones she'd inherited from her late father. Those eyes that once softened her now made her ache. She couldn't look at them too long.
"Ryan spoke to me," her mother began cautiously. "About the way you've been treating him."
Charlotte's shoulders tensed.
"He deserves it."
Her voice was quiet, flat.
Her mother frowned. "Even if he made mistakes… you can't just—"
"Even worse," Charlotte added. "He deserves worse."
There was a long silence. Her mother didn't know about the texts, the manipulation, the mind games. She couldn't know. To her, Ryan was still the polished man with a future. The one who brought flowers and smiled too nicely.
But Charlotte knew better.
She wasn't just angry. She was planning.
---
Later that evening, Charlotte left work, exhausted. Her shift had dragged her nerves to the edge. She scrolled through her phone at the curb, waiting for her cab, when a sleek black car pulled up.
The windows rolled down slowly.
"Cherry," came the familiar voice.
Ryan. Of course.
She turned away. She already knew what was coming.
"I'm not asking. I'm telling you. Get in the car."
His tone had that dangerous calm. The kind of calm that always came before chaos.
Charlotte folded her arms. "No."
He stared at her for a beat. Then two.
Then stepped out, walking toward her.
"You're really going to make a scene in public?" she taunted.
Without warning, he pushed her gently—but firmly—against the car.
She didn't flinch.
He leaned in, his voice low. "Mon chéri, you know I love you. You're the only one who ever—"
Charlotte laughed. Loud and unhinged.
The kind of laugh that echoed off glass and stone.
People across the street turned to look.
Ryan blinked. The girl in front of him wasn't the same person he met months ago.
She wasn't crying anymore. She wasn't pleading.
She was dangerous.
Charlotte pulled out her phone.
No passcode. Just one screen—one message.
Ryan's eyes locked on the text, he couldn't believe his eyes.
"That venerable patriarch undoubtedly possesses a flourishing enterprise and substantial wealth... hence, the only recourse to usurp his dominion entails his elimination. After all, he is merely the progenitor of a daughter… whose influence is tenuous at best."
The color drained from his face.
He looked like a man who'd seen a ghost.
"Where… where did you get that?" he whispered.
Charlotte leaned in. "You always forget I'm not as dumb as you think."
"You wouldn't dare," he whispered.
But he didn't sound sure. He sounded scared.
He reached out, trying to grab her wrist.
"I swear, Charlotte, I'll call off the wedding if you want. I'll do anything. But don't believe that text. I'm here. In front of you. Doesn't that matter?"
"Go ahead," she said, unfazed. "Call it off."
Ryan's composure cracked.
In a sudden burst of rage, he snatched her phone and smashed it on the concrete.
It shattered into dozens of tiny, glittering pieces.
"There," he breathed heavily. "Problem solved, Cherry. Now let's get lunch."
She looked at the broken screen… then at him.
In one motion, she picked up a rock from the sidewalk and hurled it straight into his windshield.
CRACK.
Glass split like a spiderweb. Pedestrians gasped. Someone took out a phone to record.
"If it wasn't true," she said softly, "then why did that scare you?"
He didn't answer.
Charlotte sat in the backseat of the cab, trying not to cry.
Her hand was shaking. Her heart was pounding violently .She had acted like she had control—but she had just lost everything.
Her phone. Her evidence.
Her one piece of proof.
She stared at her reflection in the window. She looked like a stranger.
What was she doing?
Her head throbbed with pressure. Her mind screamed at her to regroup. Plan again.
"Miss?" the driver asked, gently. "Are you okay?"
She blinked. Nodded. "I'm fine."
"If it helps, I know what it's like... to be cornered." He offered a soft smile. "Sometimes people like us, we get tricked into thinking we're powerless. But you're not."
She smiled faintly as they reached home. "Thanks."
The scent hit her first.
Potato stew. Her father's favorite.
For a moment, she was five years old again, barefoot and giggling, tugging at her father's sleeve for one more bedtime story.
Now she was twenty-two, exhausted, heartbroken, and running out of options.
She sat on the couch. Her mother didn't even notice her enter, too busy setting plates and pouring juice. Just like old times.
But nothing was like old times.
Charlotte stared at the table blankly.
Her mother finally turned and gasped.
"Darling! Where were you? I called so many times—"
"My phone broke."
That's all she said.
And when her mother pressed, she lied. "It slipped. I took it to a repair shop. They said it's dead."
Her mother frowned but nodded. "We'll get you another one. After dinner, okay?"
Charlotte nodded, lips pressed tightly. She didn't want to cry. She had no right to.
She had handed her power over on a silver plate—and now she had to start again.
That night, while everyone slept, Charlotte sat by her bedroom window.
A cup of cold tea in her hands. Rain trickling down the glass.
She watched the city breathe.
She thought of her father. Of how he used to tell her bedtime stories—stories of brave girls who never backed down.
She hadn't been brave. Not today.
She had acted recklessly, let anger take the wheel. And now she had nothing.
But something deeper stirred inside her. Not defeat. Not regret.
Resolve.
She would rebuild. Replan. Retaliate.
Smarter this time. Silently. No more smashing. No more shouting.
If Ryan thought the game was over, he was wrong.
You broke my phone.
But not my mind.
You shattered the glass… but I'm still holding the knife.