Her Fiancé is My Revenge

Underneath the short video I posted, a girl tagged her boyfriend.

【Everyone move, my husband loves this type. Let him see it first!】

I tapped on her profile picture and froze.

It was the girl who bullied me in high school.
I’d know that face if it were ash.

I didn’t sleep all night. I scrolled through every single one of her videos, then clicked on the boyfriend she’d tagged.
I sent him a private message.

【Are you there?】

1

Before I saw Genevieve again, I’d imagined what she’d become a thousand times.
I thought bad people got what they deserved. That she’d be miserable, broke, her life in ruins.
But she wasn’t.

In the videos she posted, one day she was in a ten-thousand-dollar-a-night villa at the Cheval Blanc in St. Barts. The next, she was flying to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. The day after, she was racing a convertible down the Pacific Coast Highway as the sun bled into the ocean.

In her most recent photo, she was sitting in the back of a black Rolls-Royce, dressed in a Chanel suit, smiling for the camera with an audacious confidence. Not a shadow of worry on her face.
She looked like she was doing great.
But why should she?

My fingers tightened around my phone, my eyes locked on her smiling face on the screen. Slowly, that smile morphed into the one she wore with her school uniform. She was laughing as she slapped me, one stinging blow after another. When her hand got tired, she’d let one of her friends take over while she stood to the side, grinning, holding a phone up to my swollen, bleeding face.

“Smile, Leah. Aren’t you the one who loves getting attention? What’s wrong, can’t smile now?!”

She yanked my hair, pulling my head back. Her smile stretched wider.

“Smile!”

Genevieve’s malice toward me started the day the boy she liked gave me a birthday present.
He gave me a handbag. He said his mom had brought it back from a trip to Milan, that it cost over three thousand dollars. I was so horrified I refused to take it. He got angry, shoved it into my arms, and said if I didn’t want it, he’d just throw it away.

I was standing there, helpless, clutching the bag, when Genevieve walked in.

She snatched it from my hands. She stared at it for a moment, and then a strange, twisted smile spread across her face. It made my blood run cold.

“I’ve been asking him for this bag for three months and he never got it for me,” she said, her voice deceptively sweet. “I guess he was saving it for you.”

She looked up at me then, and the look in her eyes made the hair on my arms stand up.

“You’ve got some nerve, Leah.”

After that, Genevieve made my life a living hell.

The thing I dreaded most each day was the final bell. I never knew when she and her friends would corner me in a bathroom for another session of beatings and humiliation.
I lived in a constant state of terror, plagued by nightmares every single night. But I couldn’t tell anyone.

My parents had divorced when I was young. Both had new families, new lives. The only one who wanted me was my grandmother, Nana, who walked with a limp.
She ran a small, beloved local deli, waking up before dawn every day to prep sandwiches and salads just so she could afford to send me to school.
I was one of the few scholarship kids at that private academy, admitted on academic merit with my tuition waived.

I couldn’t tell the teachers. Genevieve had threatened to go after my nana, and I knew the school administration would turn a blind eye for a girl whose family was as wealthy and influential as hers.
All I could do was study harder, dreaming of the day I’d test my way out of that place and leave it all behind.
But even that small hope was stolen from me.

The night before the SATs, Genevieve locked me in a bathroom again. This time, she had her friends strip my clothes off and take pictures.
I was trapped in there all night, so I didn’t know that my photos were already being passed around in local group chats.
I didn’t know that Genevieve had deliberately sent someone to Nana’s deli to show them to her.

Nana was frantic when I didn’t come home. She locked up the shop and, with her bad leg, limped her way toward the school to find me.
In her panic, she didn’t look carefully enough when crossing the street. A semi-truck, the driver exhausted from a long haul, struck her. She was gone instantly.

I didn’t find out until the next morning, when a janitor finally let me out.
The world tilted, spots dancing in front of my eyes. I collapsed, my mind a complete, roaring blank.
When I woke up, I was in the hospital.
In a single day, I lost my chance to change my life, and I lost the only person in the world who loved me.

I barely remember the aftermath. I think my mind, in an act of self-preservation, walled off those memories. I only recall one of my teachers visiting. I overheard her in the hallway, her voice thick with pity.
“She was a shoo-in for the Ivy League,” she said to someone. “Such a shame.”

Nothing happened to Genevieve. She got a stern talking-to in the principal’s office. That was it. Her father was a major local entrepreneur, one of the city’s largest taxpayers. The principal wouldn’t dare cross him.

I used what little money we had left to arrange Nana’s funeral. There was no money for a gap year or SAT prep courses. I found a job in a factory, earning just enough to survive.
And Genevieve? She was sent off to a university in California to begin her brilliant life.

…

I sat on my bed in the dark, staring at the black ceiling.
I used to do this a lot during the hardest years, just stare into nothing.
Life did get better, eventually. I saved up, got my degree online, and then scraped together enough to start my own e-commerce clothing boutique. I modeled the clothes myself. Luckily, I had the looks for it, and I caught the wave of a trend at the right time. The business grew, and now, I’m financially independent.

I thought I had forgotten. I thought I could start a new life.
But the moment I saw Genevieve’s face, I understood. I had never let it go.
I hated her. I hated her with every cell in my body.

I sat there until the sun came up. Then, with fingers that felt stiff and cold, I finally clicked on the account she had tagged.
It was a man’s profile, the picture just a few simple lines forming an abstract face. He hadn’t posted a single video.
But it didn’t take me long to find out who he was.

Rhys Thorne. Genevieve’s fiancé.
Her family’s business had nearly gone bankrupt while she was in college. They’d been saved by a strategic engagement. The Thorne family was the lifeline they’d clung to.
And the source of the lavish lifestyle Genevieve now flaunted.

She didn’t recognize me. It was laughable, really. She had personally shoved me into hell. Her smiling face was the star of every one of my nightmares, yet she had completely forgotten me. Forgotten me so completely she was tagging her fiancé in my comments section.

I tapped the message icon next to Rhys Thorne’s name. I hesitated for a moment, then typed out a single message.

【Are you there?】

2

Three days later, I opened my chat with Rhys for the hundredth time.
He still hadn’t replied.
I wasn’t surprised. From the research I’d done, Rhys Thorne had a remarkably clean slate when it came to women.
Genevieve’s tag was probably just a casual joke, something she did knowing he wouldn’t care.

It was strange, really. He was the heir to the Thorne empire. Based on the few photos and videos I could find, he was at least six-two, with a face that could have landed him on a magazine cover—a gift from his mother, a former actress.
For a man who was the complete package—rich, handsome, powerful—his favorite pastime wasn’t clubbing or collecting sports cars. It was fishing.
Yes, fishing. Like an old man, he’d find a spot by the ocean or a lake, set up his rod, and sit there for an entire day.

It was clear that messaging him online was a dead end. I dug deeper, researching everything I could. I even staked out his office building. Rhys’s life was a predictable pattern: office, home, repeat. And every weekend, he dedicated one full day to fishing.

After figuring out his schedule, I got in my car and followed him from a distance as he left work. At a red light, I maneuvered my car behind his.
And I hit the gas.

After the sharp crunch of metal, the car in front of me stopped.
Rhys Thorne, dressed in a tailored suit, stepped out, a frown creasing his forehead. He walked back and tapped on my window.
I smoothed my hair, glancing at my reflection in the rearview mirror.
The makeup had been done by a professional I’d paid a four-figure sum, ensuring every lash was perfect while looking effortlessly natural.
It worked. As I opened the car door, the frown on Rhys’s face softened slightly.

Genevieve must have known I was his type. That’s why she tagged him.
A pretty face alone might not hook him, but at least it wouldn't create an immediate aversion.
I looked up, tilting my face to its most flattering angle, and offered a flustered apology.
“I’m so sorry. I’m a new driver, I just got my license. I was in a hurry and I didn’t react in time. Are you okay?”

Rhys shook his head and walked to the back of his car to inspect the damage. “It’s not too bad. Let’s pull over so we’re not blocking traffic. We can just go through insurance.”

I nodded. We waited on the side of the road while the insurance reps handled everything. When it was all done, I casually pulled out my phone, opened my contacts, and held it out to him.
“Can I get your number? Just in case anything else comes up.”
My tone was so matter-of-fact, so devoid of any ulterior motive, that it left him no room to refuse. Rhys paused for a beat, then took out his phone and we exchanged information.

“I really am sorry about today. Let me buy you dinner sometime to make up for it?” I asked, looking up at him.
“That’s not necessary. The insurance is handled. We can just text if there’s an issue.” He rejected me, just as I’d expected, got in his car, and drove off.

I watched his car merge back into the flow of traffic, a slow smile spreading across my face as I clutched my phone.
Today’s mission was a success. I never expected to get close to him this quickly. Just getting his number was a victory.
I like a challenge.
If he had been too easy, it wouldn’t have been any fun.

I found all of Genevieve’s social media accounts. She seemed genuinely obsessed with Rhys. Nine out of every ten posts were about him in some way.
Her infatuation was written in flashing neon letters.
The Gu family business had been declining for years. Without the Thorne family’s capital infusion, they would have gone under long ago.
Genevieve.
I wondered how comfortable her life would be if she lost Rhys Thorne.
If fate wouldn’t serve her what she deserved, I would do it myself.

3

I spent the whole night dissecting Rhys’s social media presence.
He really was a simple man. His feeds were practically empty, save for the occasional post bragging about a fish he’d caught.

I didn’t message him. Instead, a few days later, I posted a photo.
In the picture, the wind was sending ripples across the dark water of a reservoir. I was holding up a massive catfish, a small, knowing smile on my lips.
【Another day, another catch!】

I waited a week. No like from Rhys. No comment.
But he didn’t post anything that weekend either. Clearly, he’d been skunked.

The second week, I posted again. Same reservoir, another huge catfish, this one even bigger than the last. At least ten pounds.
【Fish on!】
Still nothing from him.

The third week, another post.
【Can’t stop. Won’t stop.】
Then I put on a face mask and went to bed.

The next morning, I opened my phone. Among the dozens of likes, I finally saw the one I’d been waiting for.
A comment from Rhys Thorne.
【Where is this?】

I looked at my phone and smiled.
Hooked.

4

The next time I met Rhys, he was noticeably more talkative.
“So, does that spot you mentioned really have that many fish?”

I subtly sized him up. He was wearing a black hoodie and gray sweatpants, his dark hair falling naturally across his forehead without a trace of gel.
When he talked about something he was passionate about, his eyes widened slightly, and they shone with an unexpected light. He looked less like the cold, imposing figure from financial magazines and more like a college kid in his early twenties.

I nodded. “You’ll see when we get there. I’ve never left that place empty-handed.”
The truth was, I knew nothing about fishing. I’d spent the last few weeks cramming, learning everything I could for the sole purpose of catching this one specific fish. I’d found this secluded spot by asking around and spending days hiking the local mountains.

When Rhys first commented, I ignored him. The next day, after posting another photo, I finally, casually replied:
【It’s up in the mountains. Pretty hard to find.】
This time, he replied instantly: 【Would you mind if I tagged along next time you go? Thanks.】
I put my phone down, ate dinner, and waited until I figured he was getting impatient before replying with a single word:
【Sure.】

…

We cast our lines several yards apart. He didn’t initiate conversation, and I wasn’t about to act needy.
Occasionally, when one of us got a bite, we’d glance over. I could tell that every time I reeled one in, he was dying to come over and see, but he was too proud. He’d just pretend to be casually looking around, his eyes darting back and forth.

From Genevieve’s posts, I knew this was Rhys’s personality. A little cold, a little aloof. He wouldn’t even bother with polite pretenses for things that didn’t interest him.
He’d probably been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, blessed with looks and wealth. He’d rarely encountered a situation that required him to be charming or proactive. He was used to being the center of his own universe.
Women had probably been throwing themselves at him for years. If I was too aggressive, he’d lump me in with all the rest, not worth a second thought.

After that first trip, I didn’t contact him again. But I had figured out his schedule. I started showing up at the reservoir, making sure we “ran into each other” at least once a week.
But the waiting for a bite was boring. After our third meeting, he finally started talking to me again.
“How did you find this spot anyway?”
“I’d pretty much fished out all the nearby fisheries and public spots. They were getting boring. Found this place by accident while I was hiking one day, gave it a try, and it turned out to be gold.”

Once we started talking about fishing, Rhys opened up.
He got excited showing me a video of him catching piranha in the Amazon. I was duly impressed, then showed him a picture of me on a deep-sea charter with a yellowfin tuna.
His eyes lit up, followed by a flicker of regret. “I’ve always wanted to go for tuna, but I’ve been too busy to get away.”
He looked up at me, really looking at me for the first time. “I can’t believe you’re this into fishing. You don’t meet many women who are.”

The conversation flowed. We started talking about sports, music we liked, movies, books. He was surprised to find we had so much in common.
We both loved to ski. We both loved Yukio Mishima’s The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea. We were both fans of the same obscure Japanese musician. Even when our tastes differed, we could understand the other’s perspective. Before we knew it, we had talked for the entire afternoon, and the sky had turned dark.

After that, we started fishing together regularly. We even adopted a stray cat that lived by the reservoir. It was a little yellow kitten, only a few months old. Whenever we showed up, it would curl up nearby, waiting patiently for a fish. If we weren’t catching anything, it would meow impatiently, as if scolding us.
I named him Nugget. For good luck. I’d always greet him with cuddles and kisses.
Rhys was less enthusiastic. Whenever Nugget tried to rub against him, he’d sidestep. He was a bit of a neat freak and hated getting cat hair on his clothes.

One evening, as we were packing up, Rhys asked me for the first time:
“When are you coming next?”
I thought for a second. “Work’s been pretty crazy lately. Hard to say.”
A flicker of disappointment, almost imperceptible, crossed his face. But he just nodded politely and didn’t press.

I stayed away for a full week. I came back late in the second.
When Rhys saw me, he didn’t let on, but I saw him subtly shift his chair a little closer to my spot.
“Where have you been? You haven’t been fishing.”

I walked over and knelt down to pet Nugget, who was stretched out on the ground. He had gotten fatter, his coat glossy and smooth. He looked well-cared for.
“Have you been feeding him?”
Rhys lifted his chin, a hint of accusation in his voice. “You’re the one who insisted on naming him, and then you just abandon him.”
He quickly became smug. “Of course I’ve been taking care of him. I’ve been coming every day to catch fish for him.”
Nugget walked over and rubbed against his leg. Rhys frowned, his voice full of mock annoyance. “Can you not? You get fur all over me.”
But his hands moved with practiced ease, scooping the cat up and placing him on his lap.
Nugget settled in comfortably, immediately shedding all over his black jacket. Rhys didn’t seem to mind. He started scratching the cat under the chin like he’d done it a thousand times.

I watched from the side, a new understanding dawning on me.
So, he was one of those. All tough on the outside.
I smiled to myself and sat down to rig my line, but I fumbled and the hook pricked my finger. I hissed, squeezing it, and a bright red bead of blood welled up.
Rhys immediately put Nugget down, grabbed a first-aid kit from his tackle box, and walked over, his brow furrowed.
“How can you be so careless?”
I reached for the band-aid, but he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, “Give me your hand.”
“You really come prepared for everything—” I started to say, looking up with a smile, but the words died in my throat when my eyes met his.

He was too close.
Somewhere along the way, we had gotten too close.

The orange glow of the mountain sunset was deepening into blue. The wind, trapped in the valley, carried the damp scent of water and earth. I could smell the faint, clean scent of cedar on him—aftershave, maybe.
His eyes were a lighter shade of brown than most, giving them a cool, almost inorganic clarity. But right now, they were filled with nothing but my reflection.
The wind blew a strand of my hair across his face. He just stared at me, frozen. It wasn't until Nugget let out an impatient meow that we both snapped back to reality, jolting backward. Rhys quickly turned away, crouching down to pet the cat. “Alright, alright, I’m getting you food.”

A laugh escaped my lips. In the dim light, I could see the tips of his ears had turned red. He sat back down in his spot and didn’t say another word.
But Rhys, who usually had the patience of a stone, was fidgety all evening. He didn’t catch a single fish.

From that day on, an unspoken understanding grew between us.
He would always text me when he was going fishing. We started going out at least twice a week.
Sometimes it was in the wild solitude of the mountains, sometimes on the vast, open sea, sometimes at a private fishery he’d booked.
But it was always just the two of us.

During this time, I kept a close eye on Genevieve’s social media. Her posts about Rhys became less and less frequent, until finally, days would go by without a single mention.
I watched coldly, then spent my days with her fiancé, my makeup flawless, my attitude perfect.

This delicate dance of ours, where we both knew what was happening but pretended we didn’t, continued for two months. I decided it was time.
That evening, as he held Nugget in his lap, I suddenly spoke.
“Rhys, do you have a girlfriend?”

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