It was my parents who finally pulled me out of the darkness. "Go somewhere," my mother said. "Travel. Clear your head."
It was late, and the cobblestone streets glistened with rain. I was walking back to my hotel when I spotted her. Mia. My Mia. Alive.
Mia looked at me, her eyes brimming with guilt. "I didn't die," she said softly. "I… I left. I needed to leave."
"I'm so sorry to hear about Mia," the voice said, hesitant.I froze. "What are you talking about?""She… she passed away. I thought you knew."The world spun around me. Mia was dead? How? Where? Why?I didn't even cry at first. It felt surreal, like someone had stolen the script of my life and replaced it with a cruel joke. But when the tears came, they didn't stop. For days, I locked myself in my apartment, reliving every moment I'd ever spent with her, haunted by the question that wouldn't let me go: Why?I resisted at first, but eventually, I booked a ticket to Paris. I didn't know why. Maybe I thought the city of love would help me heal. Or maybe I just wanted to escape the emptiness of my apartment.Paris was beautiful, but it felt like a postcard—a perfect image that couldn't touch the void inside me. I wandered the streets aimlessly, drowning in memories of Mia.And then, one night, I saw her.She was laughing, her arm hooked around another man's. He was older, with graying hair and an air of wealth. They walked into a hotel together, disappearing through the grand glass doors.My heart pounded as I followed them. At the front desk, I approached the receptionist and lied, saying I was her brother. "Can you tell me which room she's staying in?" I asked.The receptionist hesitated but eventually gave me the number. I went to her room and knocked.When Mia opened the door and saw me, her face drained of color. "John…" she whispered, her voice trembling."Can we talk?" I asked. "Ten minutes. That's all I need."She hesitated, then nodded. We went downstairs to the lobby, sitting on opposite ends of a plush couch."Why?" I asked, my voice cracking. "Why did you disappear? Why didn't you tell me?"She took a deep breath, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I was married before I met you," she said. "To a man named Jack. He's a professor. Brilliant, but… cruel.""Cruel how?" I demanded.She hesitated. "Jack… he made me a bet. He said I couldn't fall in love with anyone else. If I did, he'd give me a million dollars. I thought… I thought I could take the money and leave him for good. But then I met you, and everything changed. I fell in love with you, John. Real love. But Jack found out. He threatened to ruin your life if I didn't leave you."My mind raced. The woman I loved had been used, manipulated, and torn apart by a monster. And now, here she was, sitting before me, her love for me still burning beneath the surface."Do you want to come back with me?" I asked, my voice soft but firm.She nodded. "More than anything.""Then let's play a game," I said, a cold smile creeping across my face.Revenge is a funny thing. It starts as a tiny, bitter seed lodged deep inside your chest, feeding off your anger, your pain, and every whispered "what if" that keeps you awake at night. You tell yourself you don't want it. You tell yourself you're better than that. But then the seed grows roots. And before you know it, the idea of revenge isn't just a thought—it's a plan.
Jack didn't know it yet, but he was about to lose everything.
I started small. You don't just kick in the front door with a battering ram when you're dealing with a man like Jack. Men like him—the rich, powerful, and arrogant—don't crumble from a single blow. They need to be taken apart piece by piece, until they're so fragile that the slightest touch makes them fall to their knees.
So, I smiled. I shook his hand. I played nice.
I first approached Jack under the pretense of a business opportunity. It wasn't hard to arrange a meeting. Men like him are always on the lookout for new ventures to pad their bank accounts. I used my background as a banker to sell myself as someone with insider access to lucrative investments. A little charm, a fake smile, and the allure of quick, easy money—it was all he needed to bite.
Jack was tall and lean, with slicked-back gray hair and eyes that didn't just look at you—they assessed you. He wore his arrogance like a badge, the kind of man who thought every move he made was calculated and controlled.
When we first sat down in his sprawling office in Paris, he extended a hand and smirked. "John Mason, isn't it? I've heard about you."
I didn't flinch. My grip was firm, my smile polite. "Good things, I hope."
"Oh, yes. Very good things."
We spent an hour talking about money. Stocks, real estate, offshore accounts—the language of greed. Jack listened intently as I laid out a portfolio of fabricated investments, each one designed to look irresistible.
"This is solid stuff," he said, nodding as he flipped through the fake documents I'd prepared. "I'll need some time to run my own analysis, of course, but it looks promising."
I leaned back in my chair and smiled. "Take all the time you need, Jack. This isn't just about making money. It's about building trust."
Over the next two weeks, I played the long game. I stayed in Paris, working my way deeper into Jack's inner circle. I attended his dinners, laughed at his jokes, and made him believe I was just another cog in his wheel of influence.
But behind the scenes, I was pulling the strings.
First, I introduced Jack to a shell company I'd created—a fake firm with a shiny veneer of legitimacy. Jack saw dollar signs and jumped in without hesitation. He funneled a few hundred thousand euros into the "investment," and within days, the money vanished into a web of untraceable accounts.
He didn't suspect a thing.
Next, I planted rumors. Quiet, insidious whispers about Jack's business dealings. I made sure they reached the right people—journalists, competitors, regulators. Within days, the French financial press was buzzing with stories about Jack's shady investments and possible tax evasion.
When I met him for lunch the following week, he was visibly rattled.
"Have you been reading the papers?" he asked, his voice tight.
I shrugged, feigning ignorance. "I try not to. Too much negativity."
He forced a laugh, but the tension in his jaw gave him away. "Just… rumors. You know how the media is."
"Of course," I said, swirling my glass of wine. "But you should be careful, Jack. Rumors have a way of sticking."
Jack's empire wasn't built on honesty. It was a house of cards held together by lies and bribes. All it took was a little pressure in the right places to make the whole thing wobble.
I started leaking documents—real ones this time. Bank statements, contracts, and emails that painted a damning picture of Jack's illegal activities. They found their way to the authorities, and within days, investigators were knocking on his door.
Jack's accounts were frozen. His business partners started pulling out, one by one. He was losing control, and he knew it.
When we met again, he was a shadow of the man I'd first encountered. His suit hung loose on his frame, and his once-confident demeanor had been replaced by paranoia.
"Someone's out to get me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know who, but they're tearing me apart."
I leaned forward, my expression sympathetic. "That's terrible, Jack. If there's anything I can do to help…"
He shook his head, rubbing his temples. "No. No, I'll handle it. I always do."
The endgame came three weeks later. By then, Jack's world had collapsed. His assets were gone, his reputation was in shambles, and he was facing criminal charges that could put him behind bars for years.
I arranged to meet him one last time at a quiet café near the Seine. He arrived late, his face pale and haggard.
"Why did you want to meet?" he asked, his voice hollow.
I leaned back in my chair, savoring the moment. "To thank you, Jack. For everything."
He frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?"
I smiled a cold, calculated smile that made his blood run cold. "For underestimating me. For thinking you could play games with people's lives without consequences. For giving me the chance to destroy you."
Realization dawned on his face, his eyes widening with horror. "You… It was you. All of it. The leaks, the rumors, the money…"
"Every. Last. Bit."
He lunged across the table, his hands trembling with rage, but I didn't flinch. "You ruined me!" he hissed.
"No, Jack," I said, my voice calm and steady. "You ruined yourself. I just gave you the push."
Mia and I left Paris the next day. As the plane soared above the clouds, she leaned her head against my shoulder, her fingers intertwined with mine.
"I don't know how you did it," she said softly.
I smiled, kissing the top of her head. "You don't need to."
Revenge may not heal wounds, but it has a way of setting things right. Jack was gone, and Mia was back where she belonged—by my side.
And for the first time in months, I felt whole again.
Mia was my heartbeat in a world that had forgotten how to love.
Her smile wasn't just a curve of her lips—it was a light that made even my darkest days seem bearable.
I could have lived a thousand lifetimes and still never found another woman who made me feel the way Mia did.
When she laughed, it felt like the universe itself had leaned in to listen.
I didn't just love her—I breathed her, every thought, every moment, every dream.
She was the calm to my storm, the melody to my chaos, the silence to my restless heart.
In her arms, I found not just comfort, but home—a place I never knew I'd been searching for.
Mia wasn't just my wife; she was the promise of everything good and pure in the world.
Even after all the pain and betrayal, I knew one thing: my love for her had never wavered, not for a single second.
In the end, it wasn't revenge that gave me peace—it was the hope of holding her hand and walking beside her forever.
Every time I looked at her, it was as if the world stopped turning, just to let me have one more moment to memorize her face.
Her voice wasn't just a sound—it was a melody that hummed in the corners of my mind, long after she had spoken.
She carried the kind of beauty that didn't just turn heads but captured hearts—effortless and eternal.
Mia had this way of making me believe in things I never thought possible: second chances, miracles, and a love that could heal anything.
When she touched me, even for a second, it felt like all the broken parts of me were stitched back together.
She was my compass, my guide—even when I was lost in the storm of my own emotions, Mia was the one who brought me back.
I had seen countless sunsets in my life, but none of them compared to the warmth of her eyes when she looked at me.
With Mia, even silence was a conversation—a connection deeper than words could ever explain.
She was the kind of love you don't just find—you earn, you fight for, and you cherish for a lifetime.
In the end, Mia wasn't just the woman I loved; she was the very reason I believed in love at all.
The End.