“I invited her over,” I said, tilting my head. “If she has content that belongs in this household, I want to see it. I’m a fan of high-definition truth, Charlie. Aren’t you?”
The Three-Day War
For the next seventy-two hours, our house became a DMZ. Charlie tried everything. First, the Apology Tour: he bought jewelry, he cried, he swore the “photos” were just old memories she was weaponizing.
Then came the Gaslighting Phase: he told me I was “manic,” that the photoshoot was “embarrassing,” and that our friends were laughing at me behind my back.
“Let them laugh,” I told him while applying a fresh coat of midnight-black polish to my nails. “They’ll have a front-row seat on Friday.”
I hadn’t just invited Jessica. I had invited our inner circle. If Charlie wanted to humiliate me by publicly pining for a woman from his past, I was going to ensure the audience was large enough to witness his exit.
I spent those three days in a state of hyper-focus. I coordinated with the studio. I hired a caterer. I even sent a “Thank You” note to the algorithm that started it all. Sometimes the trash doesn’t take itself out; you have to hire a professional crew and document the process.
Friday Night: The Reveal
The studio was cold, sleek, and smelled of expensive eucalyptus and impending doom. My friends arrived first, confused but supportive. They saw the “Divorce Party?” vibe immediately.
“Is this for real?” my best friend, Sarah, whispered, eyeing the projector screen at the back of the room.
“It’s a gallery opening,” I said, sipping a martini. “The theme is ‘Transparency’.”
Charlie arrived late, looking like a man walking toward a gallows. He thought he could pull me aside, talk me down, maybe get me to cancel the “stunt.” But when he saw the room full of people, his face went gray.
And then, the door opened.
Jessica walked in. She was wearing white—always the “innocent” one. She looked around, her influencer-trained eyes searching for a camera, for a fight, for a way to win. She spotted me and smirked, clutching her designer clutch like a weapon.
“You actually did it,” she said, walking up to me. “You’re even more desperate than Charlie said.”
“Desperate?” I laughed. “Jessica, you’re the one who spent your Tuesday night texting a married man to brag about photos you took three years ago. I’m just the curator.”
I signaled the technician.
The lights dimmed. The projector hummed to life.
