The night after the gala, Sharon woke early. The city outside her penthouse still slumbered under a haze of dawn, but Sharon was already seated at her marble desk, a single lamp glowing above her. In front of her lay a leather-bound journal. Unlike the glossy magazines and scripts scattered across her apartment, this book was not for public eyes.
It was her war manual.
She opened it to a page marked with a ribbon. Neat handwriting filled the pages, every line carefully crafted. At the top of the page was a single word, underlined twice:
Revenge.
Sharon leaned back in her chair, her silk robe slipping from her shoulder. The word wasn't angry scrawl. It was precise. Deliberate. Like her.
She tapped her pen against the paper, remembering last night — Arga's furrowed brow when recognition dawned, his half-formed apology, his unsettled silence. That was only the first crack. She wanted more. She wanted him to crumble piece by piece, the way he had done to her when she was too small to fight back.
But revenge wasn't a storm that swept in and destroyed everything at once. No, it was a performance — carefully staged, act by act, until the final curtain revealed the inevitable downfall.
***
Act One: The Reintroduction
The gala had been the opening scene. Arga now knew she existed. More importantly, he knew she remembered. That unease in his eyes was the seed of doubt she needed. Seeds grew slowly, but they could split stone when given time.
In her journal, Sharon wrote:
Do not rush. Let him come to me. Apologies will surface. Guilt is leverage. Guilt binds stronger than hate.
She underlined the last sentence.
People like Arga thrived on admiration. They bathed in it, depended on it. But admiration was fragile. If she could make him crave hers — hers, of all people—then every word, every glance, every silence she offered would control him.
She imagined him watching her interviews on television, reading her name in magazines, seeing her face on billboards. The boy who once laughed at her would be forced to witness her glory everywhere he turned. And when he sought her out, when he tried to bridge the chasm he had dug years ago, she would hold the power to decide how deep he fell.
***
Act Two: The Seduction of Regret
Revenge wasn't only about destruction. It was about artistry.
In the mirror of her vanity, Sharon studied herself as she planned. Her beauty was a weapon, but beauty alone was blunt. She had learned long ago that the sharpest weapon was desire — not her desire, but his.
Men like Arga were predictable. Power made them confident, and confidence made them reckless. If she allowed him near, if she let him believe he had a chance to *win her admiration, her forgiveness,* he would expose himself. His weaknesses. His flaws. He needs to be redeemed.
That would be the moment to strike.
She pictured it: Arga standing before her, perhaps in his office high above the city, perhaps in the privacy of his mansion, confessing regret, asking for forgiveness. And she, serene, untouchable, would smile. Not with kindness. With victory.
In her journal, she wrote:
He will seek forgiveness. I will dangle it like a flame before a moth.
The thought made her lips curl into a smile.
***
Act Three: The Public Unravelling
It wasn't enough to wound Arga privately. The pain had to be public, the humiliation undeniable. She remembered standing in the school courtyard, her face burning as dozens of eyes laughed at her. The cruelty hadn't been in the insult itself — it had been in the audience.
And so, Arga's downfall would need an audience.
Perhaps she would plant whispers in the press. Perhaps she would orchestrate scandals — small at first, then larger. Heir to Bridgman Enterprises, the golden boy, is undone not by enemies in the boardroom but by the woman he once mocked.
She wrote carefully:
He destroyed me with laughter. I will destroy him with silence. Silence first, whispers second, exposure last.
Her pen pressed harder as she finished the line.
***
Sharon closed the journal and sat in silence, the ticking of a clock filling the room. Her chest rose and fell slowly. Planning revenge required clarity, and clarity required discipline. She had both.
Yet beneath her carefully written words, something raw stirred — a wound that never fully healed.
She remembered being twelve, hiding in the bathroom stall with tears staining her notebook. She remembered the way her classmates recoiled from her as if her presence was poison. She remembered Arga's smirk, his words cutting sharper than any knife.
"You'll always be ugly."
She had carried those words for years, heavy as chains. Even now, surrounded by luxury, fame, and admiration, the echo still rang in her mind.
That was why she couldn't forgive. Why wouldn't she forgive?
Fame had healed her surface, but revenge would heal her soul.
***
Later that morning, Sharon dressed in a simple black blouse and trousers, her hair tied in a sleek bun. She had a meeting with her agent, Marcus, about her next film offers. But her mind wasn't on contracts. It was on strategy.
She arrived at the café early and sat by the window. When Marcus joined her, all enthusiasm and papers, Sharon listened politely, nodded, and signed where necessary. But her gaze often drifted to the people outside — laughing couples, hurried businessmen, chatting friends. Ordinary lives, unscarred by cruelty.
Marcus noticed her distraction. "Something on your mind, Sharon?"
She smiled faintly. "Just… thinking about the past."
"Don't think too much about that," Marcus said quickly. "You're on the rise now. The past is gone."
Sharon stirred her coffee slowly. If only you knew.
***
That evening, she received a message.
From an unknown number.
"Dinner tomorrow? I'd like to apologise properly. – Arga"
Sharon stared at the screen for a long time.
So soon.
The corners of her lips curled upward, but her eyes remained cold. He had taken the bait faster than expected.
She typed her reply deliberately:
"Tomorrow works. 8 p.m. Text me the place."
Then she set her phone down, her heart steady.
This was it — the next act. The slow entanglement of Arga Bridgman.
She rose from her chair, walked to the balcony, and looked out over the glowing city. The same city that had once ignored her existence now adored her. And soon, the man who had once crushed her would stand before her, desperate for her approval.
"Act One is complete," she whispered into the night.
The hunt had begun.