The plan came to me at 2:43 a.m., somewhere between hatred and heartbreak. I was sitting on the balcony, cigarette burning low, the city lights reflecting off my glass. My mind was still replaying that goddamn message — "Can't stop thinking about last night."She slept soundly inside, tangled in the sheets that used to mean something. I smiled to myself, bitter and hollow. "You'll think about more than last night soon," I whispered.
I wasn't going to shout, or cry, or beg.No.I was going to control. Quietly. Precisely.
By morning, I had created a new email. No name, no identity. Just an address — cold, anonymous: [email protected]
. I'd learned enough from my job in IT to mask every trace of where it came from. Then I opened the folder where I'd saved the videos and pictures — proof of their betrayal. Every frame burned my eyes, but I forced myself to look. Pain was part of the process now.
I attached three photos, just enough to make them panic but not enough to show my hand.Then I typed:
"Your little secret isn't safe anymore. You both have two choices: pay and disappear quietly, or let everyone you know see what I've seen. You have 48 hours. Don't reply here. Wait for instructions."
No threats, no names. Just precision.I hit send — one to her work email, one to his.
Then I waited.
By evening, the reaction came.
I was at my desk, pretending to go through numbers when my phone buzzed. It was her."Hey, babe… you at work?"Her voice trembled, something she tried hard to hide."Yeah. Why?" I asked casually."Nothing. Just… just wanted to hear your voice."
The fear was already creeping in.Perfect.
A few hours later, I created another message using an encrypted chat app and sent them both a wallet address for crypto transfer — nothing crazy, just enough to sting: ₹5 lakh each. They could afford it; the bastard she was sleeping with drove a BMW.
Two days later, the money arrived. Clean. Quick. No police, no drama.Guilt makes people efficient.
But I didn't want the money — not really. I wanted the feeling that came with it.The control. The power. Watching them panic in silence, hiding from shadows that wore their own names.
At home, she pretended nothing was wrong. She smiled too much, talked too much, cooked my favorite meal like some broken ritual. But her hands shook while cutting vegetables. I watched, amused."You okay?" I asked softly."Yeah," she said, too quickly. "Just tired."
"Mm." I smiled. "Maybe take a day off."
Inside, I was laughing. Take a day off from what? From lying? From fucking? From breathing my air?
That night, I checked my anonymous email again. Another message blinked on the screen — from him.
"Please, we've sent what you asked for. Just delete the photos. No one else has to know. Please."
I stared at it for a long time. Then I typed back slowly, savoring every word.
"You'll know when it's over. Until then… sleep well."
And I didn't delete anything.I just sat there, watching the files on my screen — frozen moments of betrayal — and whispered to myself,"This is just the first move. The rest… they'll beg for."