I hit send. Then, I BCC’d Charlie on the same message.
The “Ping” from his pocket was the most satisfying sound I’d ever heard.
“What did you just do?” he hissed, storming into the kitchen.
“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.
