After His Mistress Took My Money, I Took Her Future

The bass of the karaoke speakers vibrated through the soles of my shoes, matching the sudden, heavy thudding in my chest. I stood in the dim corridor, the echo of Harlow’s laughter still scraping against my eardrums. *An easy mark.* I closed my eyes, visualizing a heavy iron vault. I took the grief—the memory of two years of late-night calls, the cross-country flights, the genuine love I had poured into a bottomless pit—and locked it inside. When I opened my eyes, the hallway was just a hallway. The air was breathable again.

I pushed open the heavy padded door and stepped back into the neon-soaked fever dream.

Jeremiah was mid-chorus, his eyes squeezed shut as he belted out the final notes of a pop anthem. I slid into the sticky leather booth beside Mila. She turned to me, her brow furrowed in concern.

“You okay? You look pale,” she murmured over the music.

“Just needed some air,” I replied, my voice a smooth, frictionless surface. I caught a passing waiter's eye and ordered a vodka martini. Straight up.

When Jeremiah plopped down beside me, flushed and high on the thrill of his own performance, I handed him his beer. I reached up, my fingers brushing a stray curl from his forehead, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his jaw. “You’re a star tonight,” I whispered.

He beamed, leaning into my touch, wholly convinced of his own invincibility. Across the table, Harlow watched us. The smug, victorious smirk she had worn all evening faltered for a fraction of a second, unsettled by my unbothered grace. I held her gaze over Jeremiah’s shoulder, offering her a slow, sweet smile. *Enjoy the hoodie, Harlow. It’s the cheapest thing you’re going to take from me.*

Two hours later, the rhythmic drumming of the shower head echoed through the thin walls of Jeremiah’s apartment. Steam curled lazily from beneath the bathroom door, carrying the familiar scent of his cedarwood body wash.

He had left his phone on the nightstand. Face up. Unlocked.

The sheer arrogance of it was almost insulting. He believed I was so thoroughly conquered, so blindly devoted, that he didn't even need a passcode. I slipped out from under the cold sheets. My pulse didn't race; it beat with the methodical, unyielding rhythm of a metronome. I picked up his phone, my own device already raised in my right hand.

I opened his messages. The thread with Harlow was pinned to the top.

Working with surgical speed, I silenced the mechanical click of my camera and began snapping photos of the screen. The digital paper trail was a masterpiece of greed.

*Harlow: Did she buy the server excuse?*

*Jeremiah: Hook, line, and sinker. She’s too sweet to question it.*

I scrolled further back.

*Harlow: My laptop died. I can't write my thesis on a tablet, J.*

*Jeremiah: Ordered the MacBook Pro. Used the joint card. I'll tell Soph it was for my data modeling class.*

My screen flashed as I captured the digital receipt for a $2,400 laptop. Then, a $600 pair of designer headphones. A $400 dinner at Le Bernardin. All paid for by the account I had set up to ease his “financial anxiety” while he studied.

The pipes in the walls suddenly groaned. The hiss of the shower abruptly cut off.

I had maybe ten seconds.

I closed the messages, swiped away the background apps, and set the phone down on the exact millimeter of the nightstand where I’d found it. I slid back under the duvet, pulling the fabric to my collarbone, just as the bathroom door creaked open.

Jeremiah emerged in a cloud of steam, a towel slung low on his hips, rubbing water from his hair. “You awake?” he murmured, walking toward the bed.

“Just barely,” I lied, my voice thick with feigned sleep. I turned over, closing my eyes as he climbed into bed beside me. He smelled clean. He felt like a stranger.

At eight o'clock the next morning, Jeremiah kissed my forehead and rushed off to his morning seminar. The apartment fell dead silent.

I didn't make coffee. I didn't get dressed. I stood by the window in one of his oversized t-shirts, watching the Manhattan traffic crawl below, and dialed Seattle.

“Sophia.” My mother’s voice was crisp, cutting through the morning static like a diamond blade.

“Mother. I need a favor.”

“The Long Island condo development?”

“That’s phase two,” I said, tracing the condensation on the windowpane. “First, I need you to make a call to Uncle Richard. Jeremiah is looking for a post-grad position.”

A pause hung on the line. Diana Bailey didn't need me to spell out the betrayal; she heard the absolute zero in my tone. “What kind of position?”

“VP of Strategy. Something with an obscene starting salary. Something that will make him feel like he’s conquered the world.”

“And the contract?” my mother asked, her tone sharpening with lethal precision.

“Standard probationary period. But I want a strict morality clause,” I instructed, my reflection in the glass looking older, colder, and utterly unbreakable. “And an ironclad, at-will retraction policy. I want the power to pull the plug the second I give the word.”

“Consider it done,” she said effortlessly. “Shall I have Richard reach out by Friday?”

“Tomorrow,” I said, turning my back on the window. “Let’s not keep a rising star waiting.”