Morning came slow, dragging its feet through the room like it didn't want to be there. The curtains were half shut, and the sunlight struggled to find a way in. It fit the mood—dim, uncertain, a little sick.
She looked worse than before. Her hair uncombed, lips pale, eyes darting around like she expected something to jump out of the shadows. I watched her from the table, pretending to scroll through my phone while she nervously stirred her coffee. The spoon clinked against the mug—steady, rhythmic, like a heartbeat that didn't know how to calm down.
"Did you sleep?" I asked.She forced a smile. "Yeah. Why?""Just asking."She looked away, the kind of look that means don't dig further.
But I was already digging.
Her phone buzzed once. She froze, hesitated, then silenced it. The fear in her eyes wasn't even subtle anymore—it was raw.I leaned back in my chair. "You ignoring people now?""No. Just spam.""Spam that makes you flinch?"
She didn't reply. Her fingers shook slightly, coffee spilling over the edge. She stood up too quickly, grabbed her bag, and muttered, "I'm late.""For what?""Work.""It's Sunday," I said.
That stopped her. For a second, the lie slipped from her hands like a glass hitting the floor. She blinked, then walked out without a word.
I followed her an hour later—not physically, but digitally. The new number I'd sent messages from was working perfectly. She and Arjun had transferred another twenty thousand that morning. Fear makes people generous.
But it wasn't about the money anymore. It was about control. Watching her lose sleep, watching him sweat, watching them unravel the way they'd once unraveled me.
That night, I changed tactics.
At 11:47 p.m., she got another message—this time from a number that looked too familiar. Her father's.
"You lied to me. I saw everything."
It wasn't him, of course. It was me.
Ten minutes later, I heard her scream. A small, broken sound that cracked through the stillness of the night. I smiled, not out of joy—there was no joy left in me—but out of grim satisfaction.
She called her father immediately. He didn't answer—he was asleep, miles away, innocent of everything.Then she called Arjun. He picked up, voice slurred with fear and guilt."Did you send anything to her family?" she hissed."Of course not! Why the hell would I—""Then who?"Silence.
Her breathing turned ragged. "It's him, isn't it?"
I didn't need to hear the rest. I turned off the recording and leaned back, staring at the wall. For a brief second, a thought flickered through me like lightning—Maybe this is too far.
Then I remembered the way she looked at me the night she betrayed me. The cold smile, the way she called me "pathetic."
No. It wasn't far enough.
By morning, she'd called in sick to work. She stayed home, curtains drawn, eyes bloodshot. Every creak in the apartment made her flinch. When I asked if she was okay, she just nodded, too afraid to meet my gaze.
I offered her water. She took it with trembling hands."You should rest," I said softly. "You look… tired."She swallowed, voice barely audible. "Yeah. Just tired."
As she walked past, I caught my reflection in the mirror—calm, steady, almost kind. You wouldn't think that same man was dismantling her world piece by piece.
I smiled at myself, a quiet, dangerous smile.
"You're learning," I whispered. "Finally."