Page 63 of Shattered Dreams
Nasty bitch.
You’re only sorry because you got caught.
You’re so ugly.
Married men aren’t free game, sweetheart.
I watch it all unfold while drinking a coffee Roman used to make for me every morning. I scroll with one hand and stir my creamer with the other, the bitter satisfaction growing with every refresh.
Roman walks past the kitchen, head low, not saying a word. He must’ve seen it too.
He must know those screenshots came from his own phone, but he hasn’t said a word. Maybe because deep down, he knows he deserves every second of this.
I keep my poker face.
That afternoon,I find myself driving through the winding streets of West Hollywood with a purpose. Annie has developed predictable habits since her world began crumbling—she goes to the same coffee shop on Sunset Boulevard, the same corner table positioned perfectly for people-watching while she monitors the digital wreckage of her reputation.
I’m surprised she can still afford coffee.
I spot her through the floor-to-ceiling windows before I even park. She's hunched over her phone, those oversized Chanel sunglasses doing little to disguise the tension radiating from her shoulders. The beige trench coat wrapped around her tiny frame looks designer—probably purchased during those golden weeks when my husband was financing her lifestyle with promises and lies. Her fingers move frantically across her screen, and I can practically see the devastation reflected in whatever notifications she's consuming.
The coffee shop maintains that effortless Los Angeles aesthetic—exposed brick, succulents scattered across reclaimed wood tables, the kind of place where influencers once gathered to document their perfectly curated lives. Now it serves as Annie's refuge, though even here she can't escape the consequences of her choices.
I push through the glass doors, allowing my heels to create a deliberate rhythm against the polished concrete floors. The sound carries just enough authority to turn a few heads, though I maintain my composure as I approach the counter. The barista, a young woman with intricate tattoos covering her forearms, recognizes me immediately but has the professionalism to simply smile and take my order for black coffee without commentary.
With my drink in hand, I navigate through the scattered tables until I'm standing directly beside Annie's. She's so absorbed in her digital nightmare of a life that she doesn't notice my presence until I speak.
"Do you mind if I sit?" My voice carries the kind of pleasant warmth that could easily be mistaken for genuine friendliness.
Her head snaps up, and even through those dark lenses, I can see the shock register across her features. Her mouth parts slightly, as if she's forgotten how to form words in the face of this unexpected confrontation.
"Ava?" The name escapes her lips like a whispered confession.
I settle into the chair across from her with the grace of someone who owns every room she enters, crossing my legs and maintaining that serene smile that has served me well through countless charity galas and team events. "Relax. I'm not here to throw a drink in your face, though I understand that might be the more suitable approach. Lord knows you deserve it."
Her entire body goes rigid, fingers tightening around her iced drink until I worry the plastic might crack under the pressure. "Do you think this is funny?"
I take a measured sip of my coffee, allowing the silence to stretch between us until it becomes uncomfortable. "Not at all. I think it's sad, actually. Watching a woman with so much potential choose to build her empire on someone else's foundation instead of creating something authentic and lasting."
"You think Ideservethis?" Her voice wavers between defiance and desperation.
I study her face, noting the way her jaw trembles slightly and how her free hand fidgets with the edge of her coat. "I think actions have consequences, Annie. I find it almost poetic that the truth has a way of surfacing all on its own, regardless of how deeply we try to bury it."
Her eyes narrow behind those sunglasses, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her mind as she processes my carefully chosen words. "Do you think I don'tknowthis came from you?"
I tilt my head with the kind of innocent curiosity that mothers perfect when their children attempt elaborate lies. "You thinkIwould waste my time and energy onyouwhen I have so many other priorities demanding my attention?"
The flush that spreads across her cheeks is visible even beneath whatever foundation she's applied to hide the sleepless nights. "You're fucked up."
"And you're the woman my husband is on his knees begging me to forgive him for," I reply smoothly. "Literallysobbing, actually. Telling me how pathetic and meaningless you were. A mistake. That you'll never be what I am to him." I lean forward slightly. "And now you're homeless."
She pushes back from the table with enough force to make her chair scrape against the floor, drawing curious glances from nearby patrons. Her hand trembles as she grabs her drink, and for a moment, I think she might actually throw it at me.
I fucking dare you, bitch.
"You'll regret this," she manages through gritted teeth.
I lean back in my chair, completely unmoved by her threat. "I doubt it."
