66

THEA

Ezra must’ve thought I was joking when I said I was getting revenge.

Sweetheart, I don’t joke about revenge unless I have no intentions to.

And now, Newsflash: I meant every damn word.

In fact, I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life but just never thought much about it. Like, this? Right here? It’s not impulsive. It’s not irrational. It’s destiny. Manifestation. Karma in designer heels.

Let’s rewind a bit.

Back in my teenage years, I devoured those stories—you know the ones. Girl meets brooding billionaire. He gives her his black card. She holds it like it's a radioactive isotope and says, “Oh no, I could never spend your money!”

Wait, let's be for real.

I would spend that money like I’ve got an eviction notice and two hours to live. I'll even invite Lyra if possible and buy a first class ticket to sponsor her trip just so we could spend it together.

So, now that I finally have a billionaire and his black card? Oh, I’m going full main character. No budget. No mercy. No shame.

Ezra left the card in my living room that night and disappeared. Yesterday, after the ‘burnt bacon’, I'd done what every dignified lady would do. I offered it to him.

But he refused to take it back and said, “Just keep it. You might need it one day.”

Sir.

Do you know who you're talking to?

Do I look like a woman who can be trusted with a blank cheque and a grudge?

You know, hatred plus lust clouds judgement and reasoning and I wouldn't have done it if he'd given it to me a month ago. But these damn butterflies or should I call it bats from hell, mixed with lust?

Shit.

I’m about to test the damn limit on this card like it insulted my Finn.

It's in the name of love.

First stop? Designer. Obviously.

If I’m going to bankrupt a man, I’m doing it in style. Not just one pair of shoes—no, no. I want the boots that say “I have court at four but vengeance at five.” The coat that says “I will steal your soul and invoice you for it.” The dress that says “Try me, and I’ll write you into my villain origin story.” I will even buy the biggest outdoor trampoline for Finn and set it in the backyard.

I'm also going to clear my A****n save-for-later cart. I'll rent a warehouse and store everything in there because obviously, that cart cost around $2.5M or so.

Lord help me.

I’m going to buy lingerie too—because if I'm gonna emotionally devastate Ezra, I might as well do it while looking dangerously fine. You know, keep it poetic.

But he's a vampire. He would have amassed wealth for centuries so it won't leave no dent.

Wait, I didn't even know his age.

I sigh.

Will ask him later.

So yeah..

By hour two, I'm going to make sure the salesgirl calls me by my first name, offers me champagne and whispers, “He must really love you.”

I will just smile, sip, and reply, “No, babe. He just messed with the wrong woman.”

I will be grinning the whole time. Not even guilty.

He punished me on a desk like I was the villain in his story? Cute– especially when

I enjoyed it.

But now, it’s my chapter.

And this black card?

This is my happily-ever-receipts.

Who said money doesn't buy happiness again?

Kick him in the face.

My heels click against the tiled floor as I make my way towards Ezra's office, black card and my car key already secured in my purse.

I knock, wait for a few seconds, before pushing the door open.

He's sitting on his chair, eyes on me. Nora is sitting from across him, a tablet before her.

My eyes rake his face. He looks pale. Does a vampire get sick?

I shrug, eyes darting to the clock. It's 12:40, ten minutes into lunch break.

I flash Nora a tight lipped smile before turning back to Ezra. “I'm going for a lunch break. Just came to inform you in advance in case I stay over for too long.” I say before hurriedly adding, “And I've cleared my table.”

His eyes dart to Nora and back to me before he nods, obviously keeping his comment.

I grin silently before turning and leaving his office, then, Harrington & Vale's premises in my car.

First stop? A book shop.

You know, sometimes, I miss me.

Not the woman in the mirror with the structured blazer and to-do list scribbled on her palm. Not the M.D, not the mother, not the nameplate on the door.

I miss the girl who stayed up until 2 a.m. making scrapbooks out of ticket stubs and dried flowers. Who danced barefoot in her room just because a song made her feel like she could fly. I used to read novels with dog-eared book marks. Now I read contracts and complaints and school memos about nut-free lunches.

It’s not just the time. It’s the weight.

Everything costs something now.

Even joy.

I saw an art supply sale and kept scrolling. I thought about signing up for a pottery class and talked myself out of it. Rent. Groceries. Uniforms. A cracked phone screen. It adds up. It always adds up.

Trading the sketchbook for spreadsheets. The music for white noise. The dancing for dragging myself to bed after another too-late dinner clean-up or arriving late. Diverting the funds into something else instead of buying books or arts.

And maybe that’s just what growing up is. Letting go of the things that once made you feel like you.

But God, sometimes I ache for her—the girl I was before the world asked her to be useful all the time.

She had no idea how precious her freedom was.

I just hope, one day, I get to meet her again.

Even if only for a song.

Even if only to check the new shelf and books I'll be getting with Ezra's money and remember her.

A few hours later, I come out of the book store with loads of books which I dump in my car's backseat.

Then, I enter the car and speed off to Louis Vuitton.

Ezra, darling, you really should have taken the card back.

Too late now.