This was supposed to be it. Our escape. Our fresh start, after everything we’d been through, after all the whispers and the judgment. This trip, this island getaway we’d planned for months, was my sanctuary. It was supposed to be the moment the world finally made sense, just us against the tide. I pictured the turquoise water, the quiet mornings, the way his hand would feel in mine without a single worry. It was everything I’d ever wanted, a dream materialized.
But there was always her. The constant, buzzing fly in the ointment of my happiness. His ex, he called her. A bitter, jealous woman who just couldn’t let go. She lingered, a ghost in the corners of our new life, always finding a way to make her presence known. At first, it was subtle. Vague, veiled threats to him. Hints dropped in online messages he’d try to hide. I tried to ignore her, to rise above the pettiness. But she wouldn’t stop.
Then, she started actively trying to sabotage our plans. The hotel, our carefully chosen, secluded resort. She called them, pretending to be a concerned relative, fabricating stories about a medical emergency, trying to get our booking cancelled. I found out when the hotel manager called me, confused, asking about the sudden change in our plans. My stomach dropped. She was actively, maliciously trying to ruin our vacation.
A happy family and their daughter | Source: Pexels
My blood ran cold with a fury I hadn’t known I possessed. How dare she? This trip wasn’t just a holiday; it was a symbol, a declaration that we were moving forward. She wanted to tear that down. She wanted to see me fail, to see us fail. I wouldn’t let her. This wasn’t just about a vacation anymore; it was a battle. And I was going to win.
I called the hotel back, calm and collected, explaining it was a misunderstanding, a sick joke by a deranged acquaintance. I even hinted at legal action if they let someone meddle with my personal bookings. They apologized profusely and assured me everything was fine. A small victory, but it fueled my determination. I started checking every detail, every confirmation, every step of our journey, anticipating her next move. I built a mental fortress around our perfect plan.
She tried to mess with his work leave. Called his office, again with some fabricated story, trying to make it sound like he was irresponsible. He got a stern talking-to from his boss. When he told me, crestfallen, I could see the defeat in his eyes. But I wouldn’t let him give up. I stepped in, subtly. I sent an anonymous email to HR, framing the calls as workplace harassment from an unstable individual, even mentioning how it was affecting his productivity. They took it seriously. The calls stopped. His leave was approved, no questions asked. I was relentless. I was unstoppable.
The week before departure was a blur of frantic last-minute preparations and her desperate, pathetic attempts. Texts to him, filled with vitriol and pleas. Emails. Calls that went straight to voicemail. I saw them all, because I made sure I was always the one with his phone, “helping him pack.” I deleted them, unfazed. She was spiraling. And I was soaring. Every blocked number, every ignored message, was a testament to my triumph. She couldn’t touch us. She couldn’t win.
A man talking to his young daughter | Source: Freepik
The morning we left, the sun streamed through the window, bright and promising. I zipped up my suitcase, a feeling of pure, unadulterated elation bubbling in my chest. He was waiting by the door, smiling, his eyes reflecting my own excitement. We held hands as we walked to the car, leaving the city, leaving her and all her bitterness, behind. I had turned the tables. I had won. Our new life was finally beginning.
The flight was smooth, the island was even more beautiful than the pictures. Crystal-clear water, soft white sand, a gentle breeze rustling through palm trees. Our suite was magnificent, with a private balcony overlooking the ocean. I unpacked, humming, completely at peace. He went to shower, saying he’d be out in a minute, then we’d go for a swim. I sank onto the plush sofa, the quiet comfort washing over me. This was it. Our paradise.
His phone lay on the coffee table, a small vibration drawing my eye. It was a notification from a photo sharing app. A memory. Normally, I wouldn’t touch it. But today, I felt so utterly secure, so completely devoid of doubt, that I picked it up, a casual curiosity. It was a photo. A photo of him. And her. My heart gave a little skip. An old memory, I thought, dismissively. He must have forgotten to delete it.
But then I looked closer. They were smiling, broadly, arms around each other. And not just anywhere. They were standing on this very balcony. The same potted plants. The same ocean view. The same distinctive railing. My breath hitched. I scrolled down, my fingers trembling. More photos. Him and her, laughing on the beach outside. Him and her, sharing a meal at the resort’s restaurant. Him and her, in the pool. Her wearing a simple silver band on her left hand.
Then, a text notification flashed across the screen. From her. Addressed to him. It read: “Happy Anniversary, my love. Hope you’re enjoying our special place with her. Don’t forget to call the kids.”
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY. OUR SPECIAL PLACE. THE KIDS.
A man playing with his daughter | Source: Freepik
My world fractured. The air left my lungs in a silent gasp. EVERYTHING. CLICKED. INTO. PLACE. The calls to the hotel. The fabricated stories. The desperate texts. Her attempts to stop him, to reach him, to tear us apart. She wasn’t a crazy ex. She was his WIFE. This wasn’t our fresh start. This was their anniversary trip. This entire time, I wasn’t fighting a jealous rival. I was fighting for a lie. I was fighting against a family. I HADN’T TURNED THE TABLES ON HER. I HAD TORN HER LIFE APART.
The sound of the shower stopping in the bathroom was deafening. The beautiful ocean view outside turned blurry through my tears. The paradise I had fought so hard for, the triumph I had relished, tasted like ash in my mouth. I was the villain all along. I stood up, the phone dropping from my numb fingers, the sickening click as it hit the floor echoing the shattering of my own soul.
