The idea came to me sometime between midnight and dawn, when sleep was a memory and guilt had stopped biting. I sat there on the edge of the bed, watching her breathe, and the thought hit me with the quiet certainty of something inevitable: if she destroyed me in private, I'll destroy her in public.
There's this blogger—everyone knows the type—feeds on scandal, infidelity, hypocrisy. People hate him but can't stop reading. "The City's Mask Collector." Exposes secrets with a smile. I'd followed his posts for years, the way people watch car crashes—ugly, irresistible.
So I gathered everything again: the videos, the photos, the screenshots. Cleaned them. Edited just enough to make them clear but not obviously traced back to me. I even wrote a message that sounded like it came from some anonymous insider—"A concerned friend who can't watch this lie any longer."
It took me three tries to press "Send."When I finally did, my hands were shaking. Not from fear. From the rush.
Morning came with chaos. The post was everywhere. The blogger uploaded everything with his usual flair—blurry faces, cropped angles, dramatic captions like "The Perfect Wife? Not Anymore."
Her name wasn't mentioned directly, but everyone who knew her could recognize the apartment, the details, the ring on her hand. And then the gossip began. Like wildfire.
Her phone wouldn't stop ringing. Friends, coworkers, even her mother. The air filled with her panicked voice—"It's fake! Someone's framing me! I don't know how—please, believe me!"
I sat at the table, pretending to scroll through my own phone, acting confused."What's going on?" I asked, keeping my tone light.
She turned toward me, eyes wide, trembling. "Dhruve! Someone posted… someone posted us!""Us?" I raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, us?"
"Me! They— they posted videos, pictures—someone must have hacked my phone!"
I walked over slowly, looked at her shaking hands gripping the screen. "Let me see."She hesitated, then handed it over.
I watched the video play—her, with him. The sound. The movement.I kept my face blank, just enough confusion to make it believable. "This… this is you?"
Her breath hitched. "Dhruve, it's not what you think! Someone's trying to ruin me!"
"Yeah," I said softly, "seems like it."And then I handed the phone back and walked away.
The rest of the day was a blur of panic and shame. She called everyone she knew, sobbing, begging. Her best friend—the same one who used to gossip about other people's marriages—was now avoiding her calls. Karma moves fast when it's online.
By evening, she was curled up on the couch, phone dead, eyes red.When she finally spoke, her voice was small, broken."Dhruve… do you hate me?"
I looked at her for a long time, letting the silence burn her."No," I said finally. "I don't hate you. I just don't understand how we got here."
She cried harder, whispering apologies that didn't reach me.
I turned away, hiding the faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
That night, I sat on the balcony, watching the city lights flicker. My phone buzzed with a new message—from the blogger.
"Got more stories like this? People are eating it up."
I stared at it for a long time before deleting it. I wasn't doing this for fame. I wasn't doing this for money.
This was my justice. My silent revenge.
Inside, I could still hear her sobbing, whispering, "Why me? Who did this?"
I closed my eyes and whispered,
"Maybe the universe finally decided to balance the scales."