Sweet Revenge: Kissing My Ex's Uncle

Through the crack in the door, the image burned itself onto the back of her eyes.

Kason.

His back was to her, but she knew the line of his shoulders, the way his expensive shirt stretched across them. He had Brielle pressed against the arm of a sofa, his hands locked on her waist. Brielle's fingers were tangled in his tie, her head thrown back in a silent laugh as his mouth moved against her neck.

It wasn't a clumsy, drunken fumble. It was practiced. Intimate.

Her clutch slipped from Eleanora's numb fingers.

It hit the hardwood floor with a dull, sickening thud.

The sound, small as it was, shattered the moment inside the room. Two heads snapped toward the door. Kason's face, when he saw her, wasn't guilty. It wasn't apologetic. It was annoyed. Like she was a waiter who had brought the wrong order.

Brielle, still nestled in Kason's arms, let out a soft, deliberate giggle. Her eyes, full of triumphant venom, met Eleanora's.

"Kason?" Eleanora's voice was a ragged whisper. The word tore at her throat. "It's your birthday." As if that explained everything. As if that was a shield against this.

He let out a short, cold laugh and stood up, casually straightening his shirt. "The party's been over for a while, Ellie. You're late."

"You're just his little puppy, following him everywhere," Brielle purred, not even bothering to move from the sofa. She looked Eleanora up and down, a cruel smirk on her lips. "He told me kissing you was like kissing a dead fish. No passion."

The words were like slaps. Each one landed, sharp and stinging.

"He's been bored for months," Brielle continued, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "You were the only one who didn't seem to notice."

Eleanora's vision blurred. Tears welled, hot and thick, but she refused to let them fall. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

A surge of white-hot rage propelled her forward. She lunged, her hand raised to strike the smug, indifferent look off Kason's face.

But Brielle was faster. She moved between them, a fluid, serpentine motion. In her hand was a glass of red wine. With a small, calculated push, she tipped the glass.

The dark liquid splashed across the front of Eleanora's dress. It bloomed against the pale silk like a fresh wound.

The cold, wet shock of it, the dark stain spreading over her chest, was the final humiliation.

"Get out," Kason said, waving a dismissive hand at her as if shooing away a fly. "Don't stand there and ruin my night."

Eleanora stumbled backward, her back hitting the doorframe. The sharp pain was a distant, grounding sensation in a sea of emotional agony.

She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sob that was clawing its way up her throat and turned, running.

She ran blindly down the corridor, away from the laughter, away from the music, away from the life that had just been detonated.

At a corner, she collided with a waiter carrying a tray.

A clatter of glass, the splash of liquid. Several colorful cocktails shattered on the floor, the sticky liquid splashing onto her bare legs.

"I'm so sorry, miss!" the young man stammered, his face pale with panic. He fumbled to offer her a bottle of sparkling water from his tray. "Are you alright?"

She pushed his hand away, shaking her head, but the young man insisted, producing a small glass of amber liquid from his tray. "Please, miss, it's a special calming tincture the bar makes for overwhelmed guests. You look like you need it."

Her mouth was desert-dry, her throat tight with unshed tears. The grief was a physical thing, a thirst. Without thinking, without even registering what it was, she grabbed the glass and drank it down in one long, desperate gulp.

It burned. A sharp, bitter heat that was almost a relief. There was an aftertaste she couldn't place, a chemical numbness that coated her tongue.

She ignored it.

She kept moving, searching for the elevator, for escape. But the hallway seemed to twist and turn. The lights, once just bright, now smeared and spun in her vision.

A fire started deep in her belly, a strange, prickling heat that spread through her veins. Her skin became hypersensitive, the silk of her ruined dress suddenly abrasive. Her legs felt weak, unsteady.

She had taken a wrong turn. This corridor was dark, silent. The air was cool. It was a service passage, or something private.

She stumbled against a wall, her body screaming for relief from the internal furnace. Her head was swimming, the world tilting on its axis.

Ahead, a heavy, soundproofed door stood slightly ajar. Through it, she saw a flicker of mesmerizing blue light. Water.

A pool.

The thought of cold, clean water was a siren's call. To quench the fire. To wash away the stain. To just... stop burning.

Without a second thought, she pushed the door open and staggered toward the source of the light.

And then, she fell.