Revenge11 min read
I woke up tired of trying
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I woke up drenched in a memory I had lived again and again.
"I dreamed it again," I told no one in particular as I sat on the worn couch. "He loved her in the dream. He took everything."
"My lady, the rent—" Joann Carlson, my assistant, hissed into the phone with the landlord. "They say if we don't pay today—"
"Okay," I said, and I put on sunglasses. "Then go pay it. I'll be fine."
Joann's voice trembled. "You can't just—"
"I know what I am," I said. "I'm Genesis Campbell. I know how to be many things. Today I'm tired of being perfect."
I watched the middle-aged couple on the floor. The woman's eyes were red. A girl in a plaid skirt stood in the doorway. She knelt at my feet and a single tear fell on my shoe.
"Sis," she said. "The rent—it's small. Can't you—"
I looked at her and the word 'white-lily' popped into my head like a warning light. "Do you want me to be soft?" I asked. "We have rules."
"You can't throw us out," the man sobbed. "We have nowhere."
"I won't save everything," I said. "Move out."
They began to pack. The men who worked for me packed boxes with brisk hands. Joann hovered at my shoulder, whispering options.
"Genesis, maybe—"
I interrupted. "No more pity. If I lose reputation, it's my lesson. But this family? Sorry."
Someone banged at the door. A tall man in a dark suit filled the frame. He looked down at the flailing board of boxes and then at the girl — Helen Escobar.
"Stop," he said quietly.
I smiled and stood. "Vaughn, darling, you came."
He moved to shield the little girl, like a practiced knight. "She just needs a hand," he said, addressing me with the soft look he used only on me.
"You always know what I want," I said, feigning sweetness. "Make it last."
He did not break his gaze from Helen.
"Genesis," he said later, in the car, "why are you being so harsh?"
"I'm testing," I said. "If you still want me, show me."
He smiled. "Some battles are not worth your anger. Let them have one month."
I let him. I wanted the scene to play out exactly so I could watch him perform hero.
At twelve, I walked into my father's office and said, "Dad. Can I cancel the engagement?"
He raised one brow. "You used to cry for him."
"I like someone else now." I let the words float, and he tested me.
"Find someone better," he said at last. "You can decide."
I had dreamed this: the same line, the same permission. I tasted something like hope. I already decided what to do. If I could change one thing—my father's end—maybe I could change everything.
I called Gabriel Booker.
"Gabriel," I said, "do you remember Cambridge?"
"I remember," he said. "Still perfect as ever."
"Marry me," I said.
He blinked. "When?"
"Tomorrow." I pointed at him with a grin. "We go to city hall. For now, keep this secret."
"Secret?" He sounded amused and warm. "You want me as your secret husband?"
"I want your help," I said. "And I will protect you."
He answered in a half-laugh. "Deal."
We signed forms the next day. We were quiet in the car afterward.
"I won't go public," he said.
"I won't either," I lied. "But tomorrow... tomorrow I will announce it in front of everyone."
He touched my hand. "Be careful."
"I always am," I said, feeling the old electrical hum in my chest. That hum was not fear; it was planning.
The film project Vaughn loved had a role for a white-lily. Helen was set to be the bright, innocent star. I wanted to be the dark, strong supporting role. I wanted the film to tank. I wanted the white-lily to fall.
On set, I watched Helen. She had the look of someone who never learned to be kind because the world did not need her to be. Vaughn watched her like a man practicing gratitude.
"Can she share my makeup room?" Vaughn asked, friendly to me. "She's our actor."
"No," I said. "Too many people. I need space."
My team glared. A guard stepped forward and said, "This room belongs to Miss Campbell."
Helen's voice was thin. "You are so good to me," she said to me later as if she were sincere. I threw a cold smile at her.
That night, I started a small scheme. I ordered dozens of supplies in her name and sent them to the crew. I paid for food and coffee and small comforts. The crew murmured.
"Who is doing this?" they asked each other.
"Must be a backer," one whispered. "A secret sponsor."
Helen's star rose a little. My plan was to make her climb for a while, then pull the floor.
Soon, photos surfaced. Vaughn and Helen in a hotel. Little kissing shapes in low light. The internet burned. Vaughn slammed his phone on a table and yelled at his team in the meeting room.
"Find it," he said. "Who put those out?"
"Someone is making us a target," I said softly to Joann.
"Shall we hit back?" Joann asked.
"Not yet," I said. "Let them play. Let their arrogance do the rest."
I planted another seed. I published my own biography quietly. I let people find I was Cambridge, a proud heiress, an heir to hotels and funds. The net turned. Suddenly people were on my side. Helen's shine dulled.
"Who leaked her exile photo?" Vaughn raged. "Who made her a joke?"
That was the moment I chose for the birthday banquet.
Two nights before, Vaughn asked for a quiet meeting. He said, "Genny, please. I just want to fix this."
"You already fixed it," I said. "You fixed her. For business."
He looked at me like I was an unsolved math problem.
At the banquet, guests filled my father's garden. Glasses clinked. I walked to the stage wearing a ring Gabriel and I had 'taken' in secret. My father was weak upstairs; he had trusted me to run this night.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I began. "My father sends regrets. He asked me to welcome you." A hush fell. I smiled and lifted my engagement ring.
"I am married," I said. "I will be a wife. I will be a heiress. I will be a partner."
The crowd murmured. Vaughn's face shifted from composed to sharp. Helen, in a white dress, watched like a dove who had flown into glass.
"Genesis," Helen called suddenly. "This isn't fair. You can't—"
"Can I have the microphone?" I asked, calm as the sea. "Thank you."
"Miss Campbell," a few old family friends laughed. "She is dramatic."
"Let her speak," someone else said.
Helen ran up and the staff dragged her onstage. She cried out. Vaughn stood and pulled his coat around her as if to shield her.
"Genesis, please," Vaughn said to me in a low voice.
I smiled. "Thank you, Vaughn."
"Don't," he said.
"Watch this," I said.
"What's your name?" I asked Helen.
"Helen," she answered. "Helen Escobar."
"Do you love him?" I asked.
"Yes," she cried. "He—"
"Then why not say it in focus?" I said. "Why not speak to them properly?"
Helen shook. "I—"
Vaughn fell to one knee. "Genesis, will you—" His voice cracked in earnest. "Marry me in front of everyone, let us show honor."
Gasps cut the garden like knives. Glassware chimed. Men who had been smiling with us froze.
"I accept," I said. I let the ring glint under the lights. I waited.
"Now," I said, and I flicked a small clicker in my hand. The big screens that framed the garden lit up.
Photos filled the screens. Vaughn and Helen, hand in hand, at a hotel. Vaughn with his arm behind Helen's shoulders, close, laughing. A dozen frames. The crowd stared.
"No," Vaughn said, voice losing its smoothness. "That's not—"
"The hotel," I said, loud enough for the back rows. "That's my hotel. Room 1102."
People leaned forward. "1102?" a businessman repeated. His voice went thin.
"The camera angle looks familiar," someone murmured.
"Genesis, what is this?" Vaughn said. "You're lying."
I answered, "I married a man two months ago. Gabriel Booker. He's here." Gabriel stepped forward and saluted my father with a smile. He took my hand.
"He's my husband," I said. "And he wants everyone to know the truth."
"What truth?" Vaughn demanded, voice high.
I clicked the second slide and the audio played. A damaged clip, a sloppy camera, two figures tangled in a messy intimate light. The crowd became a sea of silent mouths. Someone in the back swore.
Vaughn went from pale to flush, to denial, to anger, to a kind of small, loud breakdown. "This is spun!" he cried. "This is edited—fake—"
"Is it?" I asked. "Is it edited? Or is it the truth, Vaughn? Do you think your father can buy this off now?"
"I—" His voice failed. He jabbed a finger at me. "You entrap—"
"People," my father wheezed from upstairs, but his voice carried. "If there is shame, it is not for my house. My daughter chooses who she wants."
The garden was alive. Phones lit and recorded. Some guests laughed; some turned away. A woman whispered, "Why would he do this? He ruined himself."
Vaughn's expression crumbled. He looked at his father for help. His father's face was strained and empty. He rose—no support there.
"It isn't fair!" Vaughn shouted. "You can't expose me like this!"
"You exposed yourself," I said.
Helen ran. Her face collapsed from surprise to horror. She covered her mouth with both hands. Tears came fast.
"Everyone saw," a media executive said aloud. "The hotel is a legal matter now."
Vaughn gripped the edge of a table. His shoulders shook. "You can't—" he tried again. "I wanted to protect you."
"Then you failed," I said. "Publicly fails are public."
Around us, the guests reacted with a band of noise. Phones clicked. Men who had been in business alliance with Vaughn stepped back as if pulled by ropes. Voices said, "Not good for our deals." Others said, "She got what she deserved." A few whispered, "This will cost him his company."
Vaughn tried to salvage dignity. He offered a press smile that collapsed into a snarl when journalists pushed their way forward. Someone shouted, "Are you going to resign?" He glared and left.
Helen's face folded into shock. People who had praised her on social media now clicked their tongues. A young actress near the buffet pulled her coat close and said, "I won't work with her again."
Vaughn's father blustered and left, but the damage had been done. Phones recorded and uploaded faster than any lawyer could act. The hashtag trended by midnight.
I watched Vaughn's body language shift: first smug, then faint hope, then panic, then a wide, empty hurt. He spoke louder and louder, trying to build a defense, but the crowd had turned into witnesses. They talked, pointed, and filmed. He could not control the new story.
That was the first public fall. It would not be his last.
But there was one more scene I had to stage — the bone-deep cruelty that Helen had been part of.
Weeks later, the men who had been around Helen moved her public image into a fortress. I followed them like a shadow. One night, I got a message: "Bring yourself alone to the top of Miao Peak. No police. No one else."
They sent a video of my father bound, with bruises on his face. My heart stopped.
"You can't," Gabriel said.
"I can," I told him. "You saved me once. Save him now."
I went alone, and there she was — Helen, soft and cruel, surrounded by big men. She held my father's photo and a bear keychain. Her lips moved like a broken smile.
"You will give me everything," she said. "Your company, your name, and then jump."
I froze. "Why?" I asked.
"Because I'm tired," she said. "I want what you have."
We argued. She cried like an act and then laughed; she put on my face and mocked me. She said I had never known hunger; that my life had stolen hers.
I offered my assets. She shook her head. "Money doesn't fix everything."
She wanted my name, my life. I realized then she wanted the love my father gave me. She wanted to be me.
Then she raised a gun. "Do it," she said.
Somewhere below, headlights flashed. Gabriel appeared between two ropes like a man made of the same steel as his heart. "Genesis," he said, breathless. "Don't move."
"Get out!" Helen screamed. "This is my dance."
A tussle broke. I saw Gabriel run to the ropes and shout directions. The men behind Helen shifted. Officers poured into the scene from the dark.
The public punishment that followed was messy and real.
At first, Helen laughed. She stood in the light of the searchlights and crowed. "I am finally seen!" she said. "I am finally—"
Then she saw the officers. Her smile faltered.
"On the ground!" an officer ordered. Helen still tried to act. She flung herself into performances of innocence.
"She is a victim!" she wailed. "They made me do this!"
Officers moved her hands behind her. Her laughter curdled to a wet, high panicked sound. Cameras—real reporters, not just phones—circled.
"She has men," a journalist said into his microphone. "They were paid. They moved like a unit. Who is behind them?"
"Where did you get the money?" a detective asked Helen as they brought her to the van. "Who sent you?"
Helen's look shifted. The fierce, greedy shine she wore slipped to a softer, raw panic. She began to plead.
"I only wanted to be loved," she said. "I only wanted someone to notice me."
Around us, a crowd had formed. They recorded with stunned faces, some whispered, some shouted. "She used him!" a woman cried. "She ruined a man!" Another shook her head and said, "This is sad. She could have asked for help."
The detective kept asking questions. Helen first denied, then offered stories, then cried. Her voice thinned; she tried to make herself small.
"Your father," the detective said bluntly. "How did you get them to do this?"
"I'm sorry," Helen said, a small child swallowed by guilt.
At the van door, she turned, eyes wide. "Please, don't make me an example."
The crowd around us shifted; some crossed themselves, some took photos, some scolded her aloud. A woman in the front row spat, "You knew this would destroy others."
Helen's face folded. She tried to call out to me — "Genesis! Genesis!" — but the sound fell on tired night air. Her eyes changed from wild to small. She tried bargaining, promising to undo all, to give back every penny — but the money was gone. The men were gone. The men who had promised her a kingdom now watched from distant hotel lobbies as news trucks rolled in.
Her public breakdown was a slow, painful thing. She went from confident invincible to bargaining, then denial, then shock, then crying. People who had once liked her turned away; those who had scolded her found a new voice to call her name in disgust.
"She broke the law," a man said. "She scared a hundred people."
"She is a victim and a criminal," another answered.
Cameras recorded every inch of it. Videos went online. The morning headlines took the scene and ran with it.
That punishment — the fall from a small stage to handcuffs in floodlights — was not theatrical. It was public. It had breath and breathlessness. It had the crowd's moral leap from sympathy to condemnation. It had the filmed close-ups of her changing face. It had the ripple of conversation: "How did she get so far?" "Who enabled her?"
Vaughn watched on TV. He sat alone, his face pinched. People who had toasted him at my party unfriended him online. Sponsors stepped back. In the next months his company staggered as people canceled deals. The press called him "the prince who fell."
Some men left the industry. Helen was processed by the law and stripped of her platform. She was not just punished by the courts. She was punished by the crowd's memory.
I sat in the back of a small car, Gabriel's hand in mine. He squeezed. "You did it," he said.
"No," I whispered. "We did it. We saved my father."
My father later told me, weak but steady, "You did right."
"Did right?" I laughed softly. "I didn't like the taste."
"Justice rarely tastes sweet," he said.
After the dust settled, Vaughn's pride broke into debts. His family left the country. Helen went to a factory job. The news called it closure. I called it breathing room.
Time eased the hurt. I focused on work. Gabriel asked me small, steady questions about the future.
"Will we have a wedding?" he asked, smiling.
"After Dad returns," I said.
He kept tending to my father. He learned the small things my father liked at dinner and at tea. He learned to make broth that warmed the old man's bones. He learned to be present.
One night at the window, I touched the small bear keychain that had once been used as a threat. I kept it on my desk now.
"One day," I told Gabriel. "We will pick a new token."
He kissed my forehead. "We will," he said.
In the end, I learned that repeating a dream a hundred times didn't make chance kinder. It made me meaner, smarter, and braver.
When I was alone, I took out my phone and typed, "1102." I smiled at the numbers, but not with triumph. I smiled because I remembered the view from that room, the night air, the sound of a man who finally learned he could lose everything.
"One last thing," Gabriel said, stepping into the room with a cup of tea. "Promise me you won't do this again."
"I promise," I said. "But keep that bear. Put it on your key ring."
He laughed. "Only if you promise to let me drive you insane planning a wedding."
"I promise," I said. I put the tiny bear on his keyring with a small, firm twist. The metal clicked.
We closed the door. Outside, the hotel lights spelled 1102 in my mind like a small, private map of what we had changed.
The End
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