Part 2The Heist After the Betrayal

Two flushed, panting faces whipped around to look at me.

The moment Marc saw me, his pupils shrank. A tremor went through him as he finished in a panicked rush.

Beth let out a sharp gasp, then pulled the covers over both of them. Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

"Stella, wait, don't do anything rash!"

"It's all my fault! I seduced Marc! Don't blame him! If you want to hit someone, hit me!"

Last time, Beth had said the exact same thing.

Back then, I was a successful wedding designer with a happy marriage. For me, love and marriage had to be flawless. If a man was tainted, if his heart had strayed, he was worthless.

So, despite my fury, disappointment, and disgust, I had acted like the heroine in a novel. I’d given them a look of pure contempt and coldly tossed out, "He's all yours now."

I hadn't even entered the room. I’d just turned and walked away.

Now, Beth’s eyes darted towards me, clearly anticipating the same reaction.

But this time, I launched myself into the room.

First, I grabbed the water kettle from the nightstand and hurled it at Marc's face. After a dull thud, hot water splashed over him, and he screamed, clutching his head.

Simultaneously, with the agility of a monkey, I scrambled to Beth's side of the bed. My left foot kicked the pile of clothes on the floor under the bed, while my right foot braced against the mattress. With both hands, I grabbed a fistful of Beth's long hair and yanked with all my might.

It was her prized, meticulously cared-for hair.

Thick, long, and perfect for getting a good grip.

She started this.

She would be the first to pay.

I twisted my wrist, wrapping her hair tighter, and then, looking at her still-flushed face, I slapped her. Smack, smack, smack, ten times in a row. When one hand started to ache, I switched to the other and delivered ten more.

The series of actions was seamless, as if genetically encoded in my very being.

Beth was half-dangling off the bed, her earlier seductiveness gone, replaced by a wide-eyed terror as she stared up at me. A continuous, sputtering sound escaped her lips, like a deflating balloon.

On so many nights, consumed by the emotional fallout, I had endlessly regretted walking away.

Why hadn't I made them face public humiliation right then and there?

Why hadn't I broadcast their filthy affair to the world?

After countless mental rehearsals, I’d concluded that nothing was more satisfying than slapping faces and pulling hair.

So, when the sounds of my screaming drew everyone from downstairs, this was the scene that greeted them—

I was pulling Beth's hair like I was in a tug-of-war. Beth, being naked, was desperately clutching the blanket. And Marc, one hand covering his blistering face, was instinctively grabbing the other end of the blanket to cover himself.

The three of us were locked in a bizarre, undignified stalemate.

Our friends stood at the door, their jaws on the floor.

We had all planned a weekend getaway at a rental cabin. I had a last-minute work thing and was supposed to arrive the next day, but Beth had called to tell me Marc had too much to drink. So I'd changed my plans and rushed over.

Now, Beth, suspended in mid-air, managed to mumble a plea for help through her swelling, pig-like face.

"Help... help me!"

No one moved.

Disgust and contempt were written all over their faces.

It wasn't like this last time. They hadn't seen the act itself, only pieced it together from our expressions and clipped words.

Seeing it and not seeing it were two completely different things.

The visual impact was a whole different beast.

The level of disgust was off the charts.

In fact, years later in my previous life, when Marc's business took off and Beth became a wealthy socialite, some of these same people had even sighed in admiration:

You two proved that true love conquers all!