Chapter Five

Sitting in the waiting area at JFK Terminal 4, I carried out my final revenge.

From the inner pocket of my tote, I took out an old laptop. Inside were things I’d quietly kept over the years: copies of certain not-quite-compliant shipping documents, a few “consulting service” contracts paid in cash, and several recordings—captured in “accidental” circumstances—of Caleb talking with competitors.

He’d long had his sights on the old godfather who always stood one step above him.

Then, through layered proxies, I accessed an encrypted communications site that required a special invitation code. I encrypted and packaged two selected files plus the most suggestive group photo, and sent them to one of the old godfather Vito’s most trusted advisors—without demands, without explanation.

Vito was a suspicious old fox. A single spark was enough to ignite his doubt.

I wiped all traces, closed the laptop, and shoved it deep into my bag. It would disappear forever in some Paris metro station.

Afterward, I took out my phone and opened social media one last time. My face was still being twisted into malice. My apology video had been clipped into grotesque meme edits. Under the hashtag #ElenaRossiConfesses, there were still scattered pockets of venom.

Larissa Moreau’s page, meanwhile, was glossy perfection.

Three hours earlier, she’d posted a side silhouette stretching in yoga clothes in morning light.

Her fans’ praise marched in neat rows:

“Larissa looks amazing! Disciplined and powerful!”

“Truly strong people don’t need to smear others to prove themselves—level difference says it all!”

“Larissa and Mr. Fickett better be happy and show everyone!”

“Haters, open your eyes—this is a real goddess, that other one’s a clown!”

I stared at her flawless face—painted with “resilience” and “forgiveness”—and my stomach churned.

This woman, who stole my marriage and indirectly left my mother to die alone, was being carried by the crowd as a martyred saint.

Without hesitation, I switched to another encrypted app. Inside, neatly categorized, were Larissa’s “gifts”:

From early blurry photos of Caleb asleep… to later shots of her wearing my robe in my bathroom, taking mirror selfies… to explicit texts describing their intimacy in detail while mocking me as “old-fashioned” and “boring”:

“He says you always smell poor—no matter how much you wash, it won’t come out.”

“The color of the sheets you picked is so tacky. We just replaced them.”

These would be organized chronologically, then sent—from an anonymous email registered on an airport public computer—to several of her powerful competitors, and to the tip email of Hollywood’s most notorious gossip site, TMZ.

When I finished, the phone in the outer pocket of my backpack vibrated.

Caleb.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” His voice came through, as flat as always, emotionless.

“Outside.” I watched a plane being slowly hauled by a tug beyond the window.

“Oh.” He didn’t care about my answer. “Feeling better?”

I didn’t respond.

“Elena.” His tone turned a touch more formal, still laced with that lofty, indulgent patience. “I want all that unpleasantness to end here.”

My fingers were ice on the phone. He thought it was nothing more than women fighting over attention—a “small problem” requiring his intervention.

“Six months separated,” he said slowly, his voice dropping, carrying a coaxing implication. “Not too long, not too short. Long enough for a lot of things to… cool down. Long enough for people to think through what matters most.”

He paused, waiting for my reaction. I could hear my own steady breathing.

“If you can figure it out—if you can show me… real remorse and change,” he went on, each word carefully measured, “then maybe… some things aren’t impossible to reconsider. After all, between us… there’s too much history.”

*Real remorse and change.*

Meaning: I was supposed to surrender completely, shut up, accept everything he arranged—his bright, public “true love,” the child on the way. Then, perhaps, he’d grant me a “second chance” and let me keep being his presentable, decorative “Mrs. Rossi.”

“Caleb.” I said his name, calm as still water.

“Hm?” He sounded like he thought I’d finally “come around.”

“Nothing,” I said. “I wish you all the best.”

Then I didn’t wait for a single word from him. I hung up.

Next, I pulled the battery from the phone, separated it from the handset, snapped the SIM card in half, and tossed the pieces into different compartments of two separate trash cans.

The airport announcement rose, clear and pleasant:

“Passengers traveling on Air France flight AF008 to Paris Charles de Gaulle, boarding will now begin…”

I stood, lifted my only carry-on. Inside were a few simple clothes, essentials, and my mother’s old photo.

Without looking back, I walked toward the gate, shutting New York’s heavy sky—and everything behind me—outside a thick glass door.