I'll make them pay slowly
1293 Words
Eleanor's POV
My nose twitched at the strange scent of… lavender? No—something musky.
When I opened my eyes, my panties were resting right on my face.
I groaned, swiping them away as I push myself upright, my arms stretching over my head. My skull throbbed like it’s been used as a drum in some wild ritual. I squinted toward the nightstand, searching for my phone.
God, I feel wrecked. My tongue's dry, my head’s heavy, and my soul feels… bruised.
Then it hits me—why I drank in the first place.
James. Rachel. Sophie.
My husband. My best friend. My daughter.
The knife twisted again, clean and cruel.
I pressed my palms to my face, trying to block the wave, to stop myself from crying again. I can’t—not now.
But then— I heard movement. I froze, slowly lower my hands, and there I see someone beside me. A broad, muscled back, tanned skin. A tattoo trailing from his shoulder down to his ribs.
The sheets barely cover his hips, his breathing deep and even.
My throat went dry. My lips parted but no sound comes out.
The flashes hit me like gunfire—
"Ahh....Stop, butterfly guy… Don’t— I mean stop…"
Laughter.
His rough voice calling me mama.
The sound of a blindfold snapping into place.
The heat, the moans, grunts, whimper, desperation.
How my body begged when my mind was screaming.
My heart stopped, my head jerked around the room—clothes everywhere, an empty champagne bottle on the carpet, my jacket on the lampshade.
What did I do last night?
I froze the second I hear him groan.
The sound is deep, rough, and weirdly familiar.
My eyes darted to his back—then up to the nape of his neck for confirmation, and there it was. The butterfly tattoo.
"Oh God…" I whispered before I can stop myself, and then it hits me—my own voice from last night, slurred and shameless:
"Can I take care of your butterfly?"
My hand flew to my mouth, choking a gasp.
What the hell did I say? What the hell did I do?
Did I really ask for a rent-guy last night?
Where even was my phone?
I looked around, the panic climbing up my throat.
Wait— Is this my room? This carpet was darker, the curtains thicker, and the scent—this woody cologne—wasn't mine.
My unpacked luggages aren't in this bedroom and my phone isn't where I kept it.
My heart stumbled violently.
This wasn't my suite.
Oh my God.
I entered the wrong room and slept with a stranger.
I needed to leave. Now.
I slide out of the bed as quietly as my trembling legs will allow. My fingers searched desperately for my dress— and stop cold when I see it.
It was torn. Split clean down the middle like paper.
My mouth fell open, and then another flash. His hands—strong, impatient—gripping the fabric, ripping it apart, his mouth muttering "You’re too f*****g beautiful to hide behind clothes, mama,"
A whimper crawls out of my throat.
No. No, no, no. I can’t remember this.
I snatched the first shirt I see—a black T-shirt on the table—and pull it over my head. It smelled like him. I shove my arms into my jacket, my pulse thundering in my ears.
The door—thank God—the door’s still ajar.
I don’t look back. I just run.
*
"Welcome to the Royal Mirage Hotel, ma’am," the woman at the reception greeted, her professional smile too bright for my storm of a mind. "Your suite is all ready. Let me show you—"
"I’ll find it myself," I cut her off sharply, forcing a polite smile that barely held. "Just… give me the key card."
The woman blinked, startled, but quickly obeyed. "Of course, ma’am."
I snatched the card, muttered a thank you, and walked away before she could say another word.
By the time I reached the suite, my hand was trembling. I slid the card through the slot, the green light blinked, and I slipped inside.
The door clicked shut behind me.
I didn’t even bother looking around. I just dropped my luggages, kicked off my heels, and collapsed onto the couch in the living room.
My chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm.
"It was just a mistake," I whispered to myself, over and over. "He won’t find me. I’m in another hotel… far away. No one knows."
But the echo of my voice sounded hollow.
Just then, my phone buzzed beside me. I reached for it with a tired sigh—then froze when I saw the name flashing on the screen.
Daughter.
I opened the message. A few photos loaded—bright, warm, filled with laughter. Rachel smiling wide in a silk dress, the glow of birthday candles lighting her face.
In the center stood James, beside him—my daughter— No. Their daughter.
Their arms wrapped naturally around Sophie like they'd always belonged there.
My throat burned. A single tear slid down my cheek before I could stop it.
They looked perfect, like a family. A real family. Without me.
"What did I ever do wrong?" I whispered, voice breaking. "I was a good wife. A good mother. A good CEO. I gave them everything."
My breath hitched, my vision blurring as I clutched the phone tighter to my chest.
And for the first time in twenty years, Eleanor Harper—the woman who had everything—felt completely, utterly replaceable.
I thought of divorce — a clean cut, public, final way, but I stopped myself.
Divorce wasn’t revenge. They’d spin it into sympathy, fight for custody, drag my name through the mud, and walk away with half my life and the rest of my power. No. That would be too easy for them.
My phone buzzed again. I glanced down. A message from James:
"Honey, last night was great. So sad you weren't here."
A dry, bitter laugh slipped out of me. "I bet you were sad I wasn’t there." I said it aloud, and the sound tasted like ash.
I sat back and let my mind pull at the thread of the past.
It was at college — me at seventeen, guarded and proud, keeping people at arm’s length because I’d seen how quickly they circled the money. Then I found Rachel. She’d been the surprise I let in: quick laugh, easy confidence, the sister I never had. Rachel introduced me to James; I fell in love so fast it felt like breathing. Rachel was dating someone else then — I never imagined they'd build a life full of secrets.
Twenty years of smiles, of dinners, of trusting them with everything. And they planned this. They planned this.
My hands curled into fists. Anger spread through me, hot and clean. Forget the messy, loud breakup.
Forget a headline divorce. I wanted something slower, precise — something that took what mattered most and stripped it away piece by piece.
I stood up. I started to pace. My finger tapped the screen of my phone like a metronome, counting out the rhythm of a plan forming.
A small, sad smile ghosted over my lips. I immediately dialed.
"I'll be there in three hours," I said when the call connected. My voice was quiet, calm. "I’m coming back to L.A. Get everything ready. The meeting. Make sure everyone’s available."
I hung up and looked at my reflection at the window. The woman staring back at me wasn’t the wife who’d been cheated on. She was colder, more dangerous.
I was going to make them pay. Slowly.
- Writer
