Daisy laughed as she spun the Twister wheel. "Okay, honey—hands on red!"
Bruce, her husband, stretched across the mat, his muscles straining. Whitney, Daisy’s best friend, giggled as she maneuvered her body dangerously close to his.
Daisy’s stomach twisted. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she was overthinking things. But the way Whitney’s fingers lingered on Bruce’s arm, the way their eyes met with something deeper than friendship—it set her on edge.
“Could you grab me a hair tie?” Whitney asked, her voice as casual as ever.
Daisy nodded and walked to the bedroom. As she opened her dresser, her eyes flicked to the mirror—just in time to see them kiss.
Her breath caught. The betrayal was instant, hot, suffocating. But instead of storming out, instead of screaming, she inhaled deeply, forcing a smile onto her lips. An idea formed. A wicked, delicious idea.
She returned, hair tie in hand, and wrapped her arms around Whitney. “You’re such a good friend,” she murmured.
Whitney beamed, oblivious. Daisy, unseen, slipped her best friend’s phone from her pocket.
The next day, Daisy sat at a café, scrolling through Whitney’s messages. And there it was: a long, damning thread between her best friend and her husband.
Whitney: "She’s so clueless."
Bruce: "I wish I could just be with you."
Daisy’s blood turned to ice. She screenshot everything, sending the evidence to her own phone. But she wasn’t done yet.
That evening, she prepared a romantic dinner. Candles flickered on the table, the air thick with the scent of grilled steak and red wine. Bruce walked in, eyebrows raised.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked.
She smiled sweetly. “Just wanted to show you how much I love you.”
He leaned in to kiss her, but she turned away. Instead, she handed him a glass of wine.
“To us,” she said.
He took a sip. “To us.”
The doorbell rang.
Bruce frowned. “Who’s that?”
Daisy opened the door to reveal Whitney. She stepped inside, confused.
“I got your text,” Whitney said. “You said it was urgent?”
Daisy’s smile widened. “Yes. Have a seat.”
She pulled out her phone and, with a single tap, cast the screenshots onto the TV screen. Every text. Every lie. Every betrayal.
Whitney paled. Bruce’s jaw dropped.
Daisy sipped her wine. “Would you like to explain?”
Bruce stood, stammering. “Daisy, I—”
“No.” She held up a hand. “Save it.”
She walked to the hallway, grabbed a suitcase, and tossed it at Bruce’s feet.
“What’s this?” he asked, panicked.
“Your things. Get out.”
Whitney stood. “Daisy, please—”
“Oh, don’t worry. I have something for you too.”
Daisy pulled out Whitney’s phone and tossed it on the table. “You might want to check your bank account. I made a little... withdrawal.”
Whitney grabbed her phone and gasped. “You stole from me?”
Daisy’s grin was ice-cold. “Just enough to make up for what you stole from me.”
Bruce clenched his fists. “You’re crazy.”
She chuckled. “Crazy? No. Just smarter than you both.”
As they stood there, dumbfounded, Daisy turned on her heel and walked away.
Revenge never tasted so sweet.
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