I didn't plan to expose her.Not at first.
For weeks, I just wanted her to feel the slow ache I felt—the sleepless nights, the humiliation, the questions that never stop echoing in your skull. That's why I blackmailed her. That's why I watched her crumble. But somewhere along the way, something inside me broke.
It wasn't one big thing. It was small things. Tiny moments that built up until they started cutting through me.
Like the morning I saw her laughing at some meme on her phone while pretending her world wasn't collapsing. Or the night I caught her whispering to Arjun again, saying, "I'll fix this, just wait."
Fix what? Us? Him? Her fucking image?
That's when I realized—she wasn't scared of losing me. She was scared of losing her mask.
And that's what flipped the switch.
I thought back to that day I found them together. The shock, the heat, the way my heartbeat turned into gunfire. The way she didn't even look ashamed—just startled, like a thief caught mid-theft. I'd been her husband, her shield, her fool.
I had begged fate to give me a reason not to hate her. But fate just laughed and said, "Then hate yourself instead."
So I did. For a while.
I hated myself for still loving her. For still waking up and thinking about the woman who burned everything I gave her. For still wanting her to say my name like it meant something.
But there's only so long you can hold a wound before it starts to rot.
I remember the night before I sent those files. I sat on the floor of the living room, surrounded by the glow of my laptop. The room was silent except for the ticking clock. She was asleep in the bedroom, breathing softly, unaware that I was about to erase the life she'd built.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I told myself I was doing it for justice, for closure. But deep down, I knew the truth—I was doing it because I couldn't carry the silence anymore.
You can't just know the truth and pretend it doesn't exist. It festers, it screams in the dark corners of your mind until it forces its way out. I'd been choking on it.
So I pressed Send.
And in that single moment—click—I felt everything and nothing at once.
It wasn't peace. It wasn't victory. It was more like standing at the edge of a cliff and realizing you've already jumped.
The next day was chaos, but inside me, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
She screamed, cried, called everyone she knew. The world she'd built on lies was caving in, and I just… watched.
I didn't feel joy. I didn't feel guilt. Just this eerie calm—like the storm inside me had finally emptied itself. But the silence it left behind was worse.
Because in that silence, something started whispering. Now what?
Was I free? Was I clean? Or had I just become what I swore I'd never be—like her?
I kept telling myself she deserved it. That she'd chosen this path the day she betrayed me. But when I saw her breaking—hands shaking, voice cracked, eyes hollow—I felt that strange, ugly tug inside me again.
Not pity. Not love. Just the ghost of who I used to be before this all started.
That version of me looked at her and said, This isn't justice, Dhruve. This is you screaming into the world because you couldn't scream into her heart anymore.
By evening, the messages stopped. The world had moved on to the next scandal. But in our apartment, the fallout was still burning.
She sat on the couch, staring blankly at the wall, mumbling to herself. The same woman who once turned heads now looked like a broken painting—color drained, frame cracked.
And me? I just stood there. Watching. Listening. Trying to feel something—anything.
But all I felt was the echo of that click.
The moment the truth left my hands and became something I couldn't control.
Maybe that's the real curse of revenge—you think you're holding the knife, but somewhere along the way, it starts cutting you back.
And by the time you notice, it's already too deep.