The knife was still in my hand when I heard him ask her to marry him. The sound didn’t belong in my kitchen—it came from the living room, through the thin oak door that had been there since my grandmother’s time. A drop of blood slid from my finger and landed on the vanilla frosting of the cake I’d spent three hours making. The frosting absorbed it like a secret, a tiny red wound on white perfection.
It was supposed to be a celebration—my 25th birthday, a quiet dinner in the house I’d inherited on the outskirts of Riverside County, California. The same old house where I’d imagined a proposal of my own. Where Benjamin and I were supposed to share this cake after dinner, laughing, maybe even talking about next spring’s wedding.
But instead, I pressed my ear to the kitchen door and listened as my entire world collapsed in the next room.
“Scarlet,” Benjamin said, voice trembling. “Will you marry me?”
Scarlet. My cousin. Not me.
The ring box clicked open—a sound I’d dreamed of for months. The silence stretched, then Scarlet gasped, “Oh my God, Benjamin. Yes!”
Their kiss echoed through the thin walls, through the bones of the house, through me.
The knife trembled in my hand. Such a small thing, really. A paring knife with a cherrywood handle, gleaming under the soft kitchen light. But tonight, it would change everything.
Six hours earlier, the California sun spilled through my bedroom window, painting golden squares on the hardwood floor. The kind of morning that should have felt perfect. My birthday. My boyfriend coming over. My cousin helping me cook. Everything in its place.
I should have known better.
The phone buzzed on my nightstand. A text from Benjamin:
Running late, babe. See you at 7. Can’t wait to celebrate.
A second buzz—Scarlet.
Already at the store getting supplies. This is going to be the best birthday ever!
I smiled, pushing away the faint unease that had clung to me all week. I’d been having dreams—Benjamin slipping away, faceless shadows between us, the kind of dreams that linger long after waking.
The shower water was cold again. I’d asked Benjamin a dozen times to fix the pilot light. “Next weekend,” he always said. Next weekend never came.
By the time I got downstairs, Scarlet was already in my kitchen, unpacking grocery bags. She looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine spread—blonde hair flawless, red dress hugging every perfect curve, diamond studs flashing in the morning light.
“Happy birthday, cousin,” she said, pulling me into a hug that smelled of jasmine and money.
“Thanks for coming early,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “I thought you’d be at the firm.”
She smiled. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this. You only turn twenty-five once.”
She started laying out ingredients—filet mignon, mushrooms, puff pastry. “Beef Wellington,” she said. “Benjamin’s favorite.”
My heart swelled and then clenched. “You remembered.”
She gave a light laugh, twirling a strand of hair. “Of course. He mentioned it once at Thanksgiving. I pay attention.”
We cooked together for hours. She chopped vegetables; I seared the meat. The kitchen filled with buttery warmth and something else—a quiet tension neither of us acknowledged.
“You know,” Scarlet said casually, slicing shallots with surgeon precision, “you’re lucky to have Benjamin. He’s such a good man.”
“Yeah,” I said, “he is.”
“But,” she continued, not meeting my eyes, “he could have anyone. He’s handsome, successful, charming…” She smiled faintly. “Not every man would be content with small-town life, you know?”
I felt the jab land like a blade slipped under the ribs. “What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Just—he’s extraordinary. You’re lucky.”
Her tone was sweet, but her eyes flickered with something darker—envy, guilt, or both.
We finished cooking in silence. When the beef went into the oven, she excused herself to “freshen up.” I set the table using my grandmother’s china—the rose-painted plates we only used on special days.
I didn’t know it yet, but it would be the last time they’d ever be used for a celebration.
At exactly seven o’clock, a knock at the door.
Benjamin stood there—dark suit, black hair slicked back, bouquet of red roses in hand. The image of everything I thought love looked like.
“Happy birthday, beautiful,” he said, kissing my cheek. His lips felt cold.
“Thank you,” I said, forcing a smile. “You look amazing.”
He handed me the roses. “Where’s Scarlet?”
Not how are you. Not you look gorgeous. Just where’s Scarlet.
“She’s upstairs,” I said, my voice thinner than I wanted.
He nodded, eyes already drifting toward the staircase.
Moments later, Scarlet appeared in the doorway wearing a different dress—black silk, plunging neckline, flawless curls. Benjamin’s eyes widened slightly before he masked it with a smile.
“Scarlet,” he said, “you look incredible.”
“Thank you,” she replied, touching his arm lightly. “So do you.”
They laughed together, and I stood there holding my flowers, suddenly feeling like the extra in my own story.
“Shall we eat?” I asked.
Dinner was torture. They talked about books, movies, clients, people I didn’t know. They finished each other’s sentences, shared private smiles, and left me somewhere outside their circle.
“This is amazing,” Benjamin said, cutting into the Wellington. “You outdid yourself, Chloe.”
“Scarlet helped,” I said.
“Oh, Chloe did all the hard work,” Scarlet chimed in. “I just chopped a few vegetables.”
Liar. She’d done half. But that was her trick—play innocent while pulling the strings from behind the curtain.
After dinner, I brought out the cake—vanilla, buttercream, hand-piped roses. “Make a wish,” Scarlet said.
I closed my eyes and wished for the truth.
When I opened them, Benjamin and Scarlet were watching me. Smiling. Matching smiles.
“What did you wish for?” he asked.
“For people to show their true faces.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
By nine, Scarlet stood up. “I should get going. Early day tomorrow.”
Benjamin leaned back in his chair. “Actually,” he said, “I was hoping you could stay a little longer. There’s something I want to talk about—with both of you.”
A chill crawled down my spine.
Scarlet hesitated, then sat again. “Of course.”
Benjamin ran a hand through his hair, nervous. “Chloe, we’ve been together three years—”
“Three years, two months, and twelve days,” I said automatically.
He smiled weakly. “Right. And they’ve been wonderful years. But…”
But. The most dangerous word in the English language.
“I love you, Chloe,” he said softly. “I always have. But sometimes love isn’t enough.”
My throat went dry. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying people grow apart. They want different things. You deserve someone who can give you everything you dream of.”
“I want you,” I said.
He winced. “I know.”
Scarlet’s hand touched my shoulder, gentle, rehearsed. “Chloe…”
I shrugged her off. “Is there someone else?”
Neither spoke. That was answer enough.
“Who?” I demanded.
Benjamin’s jaw tightened. He looked at Scarlet. She looked back. And then I knew.
“It’s Scarlet,” he said finally. “I’m in love with Scarlet.”
The room tilted. My hands went numb.
Scarlet whispered, “We never meant for this to happen.”
“How long?” I asked.
“Chloe—”
“How long?”
“Nine months,” she said.
Nine months. Almost a year. A year of lies, of dinners, of smiles across my table.
“Where?” I asked, voice shaking. “Where did you meet?”
Benjamin cleared his throat. “At the firm. I went in about a contract, and we… started talking.”
“And then sleeping together?” I snapped.
Silence. Then Scarlet whispered, “Yes.”
I stood so fast my chair scraped the floor. “While you were engaged to me.”
Benjamin frowned. “We weren’t officially engaged.”
“You bought a ring!”
His eyes widened. “How do you know that?”
“Because I saw the receipt, Benjamin. In your wallet.”
He opened his mouth, closed it again.
Scarlet stood, hands out. “Chloe, please. I know this hurts, but you have to believe me—he was never really yours.”
The words hit harder than a slap.
I stared at her, the woman who’d grown up beside me, who’d cried with me through heartbreaks, who’d said I was her sister. “Get out,” I said.
“Chloe—”
“Both of you. Get out of my house.”
They hesitated, exchanging one last silent look. Then Benjamin walked past me without a word. Scarlet lingered.
“Chloe,” she said softly, “I didn’t destroy your life. I saved you from a man who didn’t truly love you.”
“Save that for the jury,” I said. “Get out.”
She flinched. “I know you hate me right now, but one day you’ll thank me.”
“No,” I whispered. “One day, you’ll understand what you’ve done.”
She walked out into the California night. The air smelled of dust and burnt leaves. I closed the door behind her and leaned against it, shaking.
The house was too quiet. The cake sat untouched on the counter, the frosting now dull under the yellow light. The roses Benjamin had brought were already starting to wilt.
Outside, crickets sang. Somewhere down the street, a car door slammed.
And then I heard it—the sound of laughter, distant but unmistakable. Scarlet’s laughter. Benjamin’s deeper voice joining hers.
I stood at the window and watched them drive away together, their taillights vanishing into the darkness.
For a long time, I didn’t move. The knife still sat on the counter where I’d left it earlier, gleaming faintly. I picked it up again, staring at my reflection in the blade.
This was the moment everything ended.
Or maybe, the moment everything began.
By the time the clock struck ten, I had cleaned every dish in the kitchen twice. The house smelled of soap and lemon, but the air still carried the ghost of betrayal—his cologne, her perfume, the echo of their laughter seeping from the walls.
Then headlights swept across the front window. Another car. Then another. The driveway filled with the glow of engines and laughter. I froze.
The guests.
They were coming. My birthday party. The one Scarlet had helped plan, the one Benjamin had promised would be unforgettable.
I almost laughed at the irony.
The doorbell rang, cheerful, oblivious.
I took a deep breath, ran trembling hands through my hair, and forced a smile. When I opened the door, Jessica—my best friend since college—threw her arms around me.
“Happy birthday, Chloe!” she squealed. Behind her, a dozen people stood on the porch holding wine bottles, flowers, and wrapped gifts.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice calm—too calm. “Come in.”
They spilled into the living room, bringing warmth, music, chatter, and light. They had no idea they’d just stepped into a crime scene of broken hearts.
“Where’s Benjamin?” Tom from next door asked, handing me a bottle of champagne.
“Work emergency,” I said smoothly. “Something came up.”
“Oh no! On your birthday?”
“These things happen.”
The lie rolled off my tongue with dangerous ease. I found myself almost enjoying the performance.
We lit candles, cut the cake—the same cake Benjamin was supposed to eat with me. When Jessica complimented the buttercream, I almost told her whose blood had stained the first batch.
Instead, I smiled. “Family recipe.”
As the night wore on, laughter filled every corner of the house. They drank, danced, told stories. I floated among them like a ghost, my face fixed in a perfect hostess smile.
No one noticed how my hands trembled when I poured wine. No one saw the way my eyes flicked to the door, waiting for a car that would never return.
At midnight, the last guests left with hugs and half-drunk bottles. The house fell silent again. The kind of silence that feels alive, breathing, watching.
I sank onto the couch, surrounded by wrapping paper and wilting flowers. A framed photo of Benjamin and me smiled from the coffee table—Christmas last year, our faces pressed together under the glow of fairy lights.
We looked so happy. So real.
I threw it across the room. The glass shattered, scattering pieces like tears across the hardwood.
And then I started to cry. Not the neat, cinematic kind. The real kind—ugly, gasping, animal sounds ripping from my chest.
I cried until my throat burned, until the tears ran out, until I was nothing but an empty shell of breath and heartbeat.
When I finally stopped, the clock read 3:17 a.m.
I sat there in the dark and whispered to the emptiness, “You don’t get to destroy me.”
And in that moment, something in me shifted. The pain cooled into clarity. The heartbreak hardened into resolve.
They thought they’d taken everything from me. But they hadn’t. Not yet.
I stood, wiped my face, and looked around the house that had belonged to generations of women in my family—Blackwood women, my grandmother always said with a hint of pride and warning.
The same women who had survived wars, scandals, betrayals. Women who’d buried secrets deeper than the roots of the old oak out back.
I was one of them. And I would survive, too.
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the kitchen curtains. The world looked ordinary again, but I wasn’t.
I brewed coffee, the bitter smell filling the air. The first sip tasted like ash.
Then I began to plan.
First, the practical. I called the elementary school where I taught and told them I was sick. “Take a few days,” the principal said. “You sound awful.”
He had no idea.
Next, I called a locksmith. “Change every lock in the house,” I told him. “Today.”
Then I called my lawyer—a quiet, sharp man named Daniel who’d handled my grandmother’s estate.
“Hypothetically,” I asked, “if someone betrayed you and you had… information about crimes they committed, what could you do with it?”
There was a pause. “That depends on the crimes,” he said carefully. “And whether you want justice or revenge.”
“Maybe both.”
He chuckled softly. “Well, Miss Carter, those are often the same thing—if you’re patient enough.”
After the calls, I sat at the kitchen table staring at nothing. My phone buzzed. Scarlet.
I hope you’re okay. I didn’t want it to happen like this. Please believe that.
I stared at her words until the letters blurred. Then I deleted the message.
Five minutes later, another one.
Benjamin feels awful. He didn’t mean to hurt you.
Delete.
Another.
We still care about you. Please don’t hate us.
I threw the phone into the sink.
By noon, I was at my grandmother’s garden, pruning the roses. She used to say roses were like people—you had to cut away the dead parts so the rest could bloom.
I wondered what she’d say now, if she knew what had happened under her roof.
As I clipped a wilted stem, my phone—rescued from the sink—buzzed again. Unknown number.
“Chloe, sweetheart,” said a familiar, quavering voice. “It’s Aunt Rose.”
My grandmother’s sister.
“Aunt Rose? How are you?”
“I should ask you that. I heard from your mother about what happened. Scarlet.” The way she said the name made it sound like a curse. “Are you all right?”
“I will be,” I lied.
“That girl…” she murmured. “I’ve been waiting for this. The Blackwood curse always finds its way.”
“The what?”
“The Blackwood curse. Don’t tell me your grandmother never mentioned it. She always wanted to protect you from it.”
I laughed softly. “We don’t believe in curses, Aunt Rose.”
“Oh, don’t we?” she said, her voice suddenly cold. “Then tell me why every Blackwood woman dies young or destroys someone she loves.”
I said nothing.
“There’s something in your grandmother’s attic, Chloe,” she continued. “Something she wanted you to have when the time was right.”
“What is it?”
“A box. Wooden, with a brass lock. Top shelf, behind the Christmas decorations. You’ll know it when you see it.”
“What’s inside?”
“The truth,” Aunt Rose said. “About our family. About Scarlet.”
Her tone shifted, trembling. “And about you.”
“Aunt Rose, I—”
But she’d already hung up.
The attic smelled like dust and memory.
Sunlight streamed through the small round window, illuminating motes that drifted like ash in the air. I pushed past boxes of holiday lights and old photo albums until I saw it—a carved wooden box with a tarnished brass lock.
The lock turned easily; the key was taped underneath.
Inside, letters, documents, photos yellowed with time. A birth certificate. A death certificate. Police reports. Court filings. Newspaper clippings.
And a story that made my blood run cold.
Scarlet’s real mother wasn’t the woman she’d grown up calling “Mom.” Her biological mother was Linda Blackwood—my grandmother’s first daughter, who’d died when Scarlet was three.
The reports painted Linda as beautiful, magnetic… and dangerous. She’d seduced married men, broken families, left chaos in her wake. One headline read:
Local Heiress Found Dead in Apparent Overdose
Another:
Husband’s Mistress Confesses to Affair Before Suicide
I felt sick.
At the bottom of the box, an envelope labeled To My Daughter. The handwriting was elegant, looping.
I unfolded the letter with trembling hands.
My dearest Scarlet,
If you’re reading this, I’m gone. You were born from love and ruin, from passion and destruction. What flows in our veins is not blood—it’s fire. The Blackwood women have a gift, and a curse: we see people’s weaknesses, and we use them. We destroy what we love because we cannot help it.If you cannot fight it, it will consume you. Everything you touch will turn to ash. Everyone you love will die. Unless you choose differently.
I couldn’t. Maybe you can. I hope so. Because if you don’t, you’ll die as I will—before your 26th birthday.
Love,
Your mother, Linda Blackwood.
I sat there in stunned silence.
Scarlet was twenty-four.
And suddenly, everything made a terrible kind of sense. The way she looked at Benjamin, the way she always needed to have what wasn’t hers. The hunger in her eyes, the charm that left destruction behind.
The curse wasn’t superstition. It was a pattern. A sickness that passed from one Blackwood woman to the next.
But maybe it could be broken.
And maybe, I thought, I could be the one to break it—just not in the way Aunt Rose imagined.
Because Scarlet hadn’t just destroyed my heart. She’d ruined everything I’d built.
And now, I had the tools to destroy her right back.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat in my grandmother’s rocking chair, the letter in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. The house creaked around me, as if the old bones of it were whispering.
Benjamin’s words replayed over and over. I love you, Chloe, but love isn’t enough.
Scarlet’s echo: He was never really yours.
I thought of the documents in that box—proof of the same cruelty running through our bloodline like poison. Maybe Aunt Rose was right: maybe the Blackwood women were born to destroy.
But if that was true, then maybe I was simply fulfilling my destiny.
I opened my laptop.
First, I searched for Benjamin’s construction company. The articles were flattering—new contracts, community partnerships. Too clean.
Then I went deeper. Public records, permits, payment filings. A few discrepancies jumped out—payments that didn’t match invoices, duplicate checks under slightly altered names.
I knew accounting well enough to recognize the pattern. Embezzlement.
I smiled for the first time in two days.
Next, I looked up Judge Harrison—Scarlet’s most frequent courtroom ally. Married. Two kids. A reputation for integrity. But a photo on a local society page showed him at a gala, Scarlet’s hand resting on his arm a little too comfortably.
I dug through my old texts. Found one from her months ago:
Just closed another case—Judge Harrison can’t say no to me 😘
Stupid. Arrogant. Reckless.
I screenshotted everything.
When I finally closed the laptop, dawn had begun to stain the sky pink over the hills.
I poured the rest of the wine into the sink and whispered to my reflection in the kitchen window, “You wanted honesty, Chloe. Now you have it.”
The curse wasn’t that we destroyed what we loved. It was that we let them think we wouldn’t fight back.
I wiped the counter, straightened the knife block, and smiled.
Because this story wasn’t going to end with my heartbreak.
It would end with justice.
And I already knew exactly where to start.
By the end of that week, the California sun had turned cruel—bright, scorching, merciless. It poured through the blinds of my kitchen like an interrogation lamp, illuminating the evidence spread across the table: Benjamin’s financial records, Scarlet’s texts, screenshots, printed photos, and one battered envelope labeled Blackwood Family—Private.
Each page was a weapon.
Each secret, a bullet.
And I was ready to load them all.
I’d spent days moving through the world like a ghost—quiet, careful, invisible. I smiled at the neighbors, taught my classes, graded essays, all while building the scaffolding of my revenge. On the surface, I was still Chloe Carter, elementary school teacher and heartbroken birthday girl. But beneath that mask, something darker had been reborn.
The transformation was almost comforting. Pain was chaotic; planning was control. And control meant survival.
I started small. Anonymous emails. A few whispers to the right people. I sent a polite inquiry to the California State Bar Association about a possible “conflict of interest” involving attorney Scarlet Blackwood and Judge Harrison. Just enough to plant a seed.
Then I made a call to an old friend from college, Ryan, who worked in finance. “Hypothetically,” I said, “if someone was hiding money through false contractor payments, how would you find it?”
He laughed. “Hypothetically? I’d cross-check the EIN numbers on the vendor list with state business filings. You’d be shocked how many people get lazy and reuse addresses.”
I wasn’t shocked at all.
By Tuesday night, I had a folder thick with evidence. Benjamin had been quietly siphoning money from his construction company for over a year—small transfers, doctored invoices, fake subcontractors that didn’t exist. He’d used the extra cash to fund his new life with Scarlet—trips, jewelry, hotel stays.
The irony was exquisite. He’d stolen to build a future that was about to collapse under the weight of its own lies.
But I wasn’t finished.
There was one more secret buried deep in his past, something he’d once let slip after too much whiskey. “Vegas doesn’t count,” he’d said, laughing, when I joked about eloping.
I’d thought he was teasing.
Now, I wasn’t so sure.
That night, I logged into the Clark County Records website. I typed his full name: Benjamin James Thompson.
For a moment, nothing. Then—one hit.
Marriage License, Clark County, Nevada.
Date: May 3, 2018.
Spouse: Tina Morales.
My pulse pounded.
He’d been married. He was still married.
There was no record of divorce.
I sat back, staring at the screen, the corners of my mouth curling into a slow, cold smile.
Benjamin Thompson wasn’t just a liar and a thief. He was a bigamist.
It was almost poetic—the man who had stolen my future had built his own on a crime.
I copied the record, printed it, and added it to the growing stack on my table.
Now, I had everything I needed.
But I didn’t just want to destroy them. I wanted them to see it coming.
I wanted to look them in the eyes when their perfect little world started to burn.
A week later, I stood outside the Riverside Grand Hotel, watching the golden reflection of the setting sun shimmer across its glass facade. The penthouse lights were already on. I knew they were inside.
I’d tracked their reservation easily—Benjamin still used the same credit card he’d once handed me to buy groceries. Same account, same billing address.
He’d booked a weekend getaway for “B. Thompson and S. Blackwood.”
Their engagement celebration.
How thoughtful.
I looked down at my reflection in the glass doors. Black dress. Hair smooth. Eyes calm. I looked like I belonged there, like someone who’d come to deliver good news.
The concierge smiled as I passed. “Good evening, ma’am.”
“Evening,” I said. My heels clicked softly on the marble as I stepped into the elevator and pressed PH.
The elevator hummed upward. My pulse matched the rhythm.
When the doors opened, I stood in a hallway lined with plush carpet and silence. The suite at the end glowed under soft light.
I walked straight to the door and knocked.
Footsteps. Then the door opened.
Scarlet stood there, wearing a silk robe the color of champagne, her hair still damp from the shower. For a second, she didn’t recognize me.
Then her face froze.
“Chloe,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”
I smiled. “I came to congratulate you.”
Her lips parted. “I… this isn’t a good time.”
“Sure it is.” I tilted my head. “Benjamin’s here, isn’t he?”
She hesitated. Then, perhaps out of guilt or curiosity, she stepped aside. “Fine. Five minutes.”
The suite smelled like expensive perfume and betrayal. Rose petals scattered across the bed. A bottle of Dom Pérignon sweating on ice. A red velvet box on the coffee table.
Benjamin emerged from the bathroom, shirtless, a towel slung around his waist. When he saw me, his face drained of color.
“Chloe,” he stammered. “How did you—”
“Find you?” I cut in. “You really should stop using the same credit card for everything. It’s sloppy.”
They looked at each other, silently calculating.
“Chloe,” Scarlet said gently, “I know this is hard—”
“Don’t,” I snapped. “Don’t you dare pretend this is sympathy.”
She closed her mouth.
“I just came to drop off a gift,” I said, reaching into my purse. I pulled out a manila envelope and tossed it onto the coffee table.
Benjamin frowned. “What is this?”
“Evidence,” I said. “Happy engagement.”
Scarlet picked it up, hands trembling slightly. She slid out the contents—copies of financial statements, photos, and a marriage certificate.
Her eyes darted across the pages, then widened. “Benjamin… what is this?”
He snatched the papers. His face turned gray. “This—this isn’t what it looks like.”
“It looks,” I said, “like you’re married to a waitress named Tina Morales from Las Vegas.”
“That was years ago,” he said. “It was a mistake. We were drunk—”
“It counts,” I said evenly. “In the eyes of the law, it counts.”
Scarlet’s voice shook. “You told me you were divorced.”
“I thought I was!”
I laughed, low and sharp. “Congratulations, Scarlet. You’re engaged to someone else’s husband.”
She looked at me, tears spilling down her cheeks. “You can’t do this, Chloe.”
“Oh, I already have. There’s a copy of this envelope at the Riverside County District Attorney’s Office, one at the State Bar, and one with the IRS. You’d be amazed how quickly they move when someone mentions tax fraud.”
Benjamin’s face hardened. “You’re bluffing.”
“Try me.”
I took a step closer. “You wanted honesty? Here it is: you didn’t just betray me, Benjamin—you underestimated me.”
Scarlet sank onto the couch, the papers slipping from her hand. “Chloe, please,” she whispered. “We didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Didn’t mean to?” I said. “You just meant to take everything I had.”
Benjamin reached for me, his voice low. “You’re not thinking straight. We can fix this.”
I laughed again—this time almost kindly. “Fix it? You can’t fix felonies.”
Scarlet looked up, eyes red. “What do you want?”
“Justice,” I said simply. “And for you both to know exactly what that feels like.”
I pulled one more paper from my purse—a letter.
“This,” I said, handing it to her, “belonged to your real mother.”
Her hands shook as she unfolded it. Her lips moved silently as she read, eyes scanning the words about curses and destruction and death before twenty-six.
When she finished, she looked up, pale and trembling. “This isn’t real.”
“Oh, it’s real,” I said softly. “Linda Blackwood was your biological mother. Aunt Rose confirmed it.”
Scarlet shook her head. “You’re lying.”
“Call her,” I said. “Ask her.”
She sank back, the letter still in her hand. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no…”
Benjamin looked between us, bewildered. “What the hell is this?”
“A family matter,” I said. “Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to read about it once you’re behind bars.”
I turned toward the door, then paused. “Oh, and Scarlet—your mother’s curse? Everything you touch turns to ash. Everyone you love dies. Maybe you should’ve believed it.”
I walked out before she could answer.
The elevator doors closed with a soft chime. My reflection stared back at me—calm, composed, almost serene.
Downstairs, I stepped into the night air, the city lights glimmering across the river. I felt weightless. Lighter than I had in months.
I’d expected satisfaction. What I felt was clarity.
They would destroy each other now.
All I had to do was wait.
The next morning, I woke to seventeen missed calls and forty-three texts.
Chloe, please. We need to talk.
You can’t do this.
We’ll pay you—whatever you want.
Please, don’t ruin us.
I didn’t reply. I deleted every message.
At exactly noon, there was a knock on the door.
When I opened it, two people stood there—a Riverside police detective and a woman in a dark gray suit flashing an FBI badge.
“Miss Chloe Carter?” the detective said.
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Brides. This is Agent Walsh from the FBI. We need to ask you a few questions regarding Benjamin Thompson and Scarlet Blackwood.”
I stepped aside. “Of course. Come in.”
We sat at the same kitchen table where I’d once celebrated birthdays, where I’d cried over betrayal, where I’d planned my revenge. Now it was the scene of something entirely new—justice.
Detective Brides cleared his throat. “We’ve been investigating Thompson Construction for financial irregularities. Someone left a package of documents on my desk this morning—exactly the proof we needed.”
Agent Walsh added, “We also received a sealed envelope at our Los Angeles field office implicating Ms. Blackwood in judicial misconduct. I take it you know something about that?”
I sipped my coffee. “I heard rumors.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Convenient rumors.”
“I like to be informed.”
“Do you know who might’ve sent those documents?”
I smiled faintly. “Does it matter?”
They exchanged a look.
“Mr. Thompson confessed an hour ago,” Detective Brides said. “And Ms. Blackwood has been suspended pending investigation. We expect full indictments within days.”
I nodded slowly, pretending surprise. “That’s… awful.”
“Justice can be,” the detective said.
When they left, I stood at the window, watching their car disappear down the driveway. The air smelled like rain.
For the first time in months, I felt something close to peace.
Not happiness. Not yet. But peace.
Because Benjamin and Scarlet were finally paying for what they’d done.
And I hadn’t had to lift a single bloody finger.
The news broke two days later.
LOCAL COUPLE CHARGED IN EMBEZZLEMENT AND JUDICIAL CORRUPTION SCANDAL.
Their faces filled every TV screen, every digital feed. Benjamin in handcuffs, head down; Scarlet in a beige trench coat, sunglasses hiding her eyes. The perfect couple, turned perfect cautionary tale.
I watched it unfold on my living room TV, coffee in hand, the morning light slanting across the floorboards. I didn’t smile. I didn’t cry. I just watched.
The reporters loved it. “A small-town scandal with all the makings of a Hollywood movie,” one anchor said. “The construction mogul, the ambitious attorney, the forbidden affair.”
If only they knew the real story—the one that began with a birthday cake and a kitchen knife.
By noon, the phone started ringing again. Friends, coworkers, neighbors. People I barely remembered calling to say they were “so sorry” and that they “never liked Scarlet anyway.” Sympathy tasted like pity, and pity tasted like poison.
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I went to the garden. The roses were blooming again, lush and red despite the early frost that clung to the California air. My grandmother used to say the Blackwood roses never died easy. Neither did her granddaughters.
That night, I received a call from Agent Walsh.
“Miss Carter,” she said, her voice crisp and professional. “We wanted to inform you that Mr. Thompson has confessed to multiple counts of embezzlement. He’s cooperating in exchange for leniency.”
“Leniency,” I repeated. “How lenient?”
“Prosecution is recommending eight years, with parole eligibility after five. Ms. Blackwood, on the other hand, has refused to cooperate. She’s being charged with judicial corruption, perjury, and obstruction of justice.”
“And how long for her?”
“Two to five years. Plus disbarment.”
My pulse quickened. “Good.”
Walsh hesitated. “Miss Carter… you sound relieved.”
I let out a breath. “Wouldn’t you be?”
There was a pause. “Justice isn’t about relief,” she said finally. “It’s about closure.”
But justice, I thought, had never tasted sweeter.
The trial began three months later, and the courthouse in Riverside County turned into a circus.
Reporters lined the steps, microphones flashing. The gallery was packed—locals, journalists, rubberneckers drawn to scandal like flies to sugar.
I took my seat in the second row, behind the prosecution table. The air was heavy with whispers and camera shutters.
Then Benjamin walked in.
He looked older, thinner, a shadow of the man who used to whisper promises in my kitchen. The smug smile was gone, replaced by a weary resignation. He didn’t look at me.
Scarlet entered moments later, wearing a navy-blue suit that didn’t fit quite right, her wrists still marked from the handcuffs she’d worn that morning. Her hair was darker now, her face pale.
She scanned the room until her gaze met mine. For a heartbeat, everything else disappeared—the noise, the lawyers, the lights. Just us.
Her eyes didn’t plead. They burned.
The judge, a stern woman with silver hair and steady hands, called the room to order. “State of California versus Benjamin Thompson and Scarlet Blackwood.”
The prosecutor began his opening statement, laying out the story like a tragedy in three acts. The theft, the corruption, the affair.
I could feel the room lean in when he said my name.
“The evidence was first brought to light by a private citizen, Miss Chloe Carter,” he said. “Her testimony and documentation were crucial to uncovering the truth.”
All eyes turned to me. I kept my gaze forward, unblinking.
When it was my turn to take the stand, I walked calmly to the witness box, hands steady, heart cold.
“Please state your name for the record.”
“Chloe Ann Carter.”
“And your relationship to the defendants?”
I looked straight at them. “I was engaged to Benjamin Thompson. Scarlet Blackwood is my cousin.”
A murmur rippled through the room.
The prosecutor smiled faintly. “Miss Carter, can you tell the court how you came across the evidence that led to these charges?”
I told them everything. The strange payments. The missing invoices. The texts Scarlet had bragged about. I told them how I’d found the proof, how I’d tried to believe it wasn’t true until the night Benjamin confessed.
Every word was precise, measured, clean. I left out the rage, the heartbreak, the nights I’d cried until dawn. The jury didn’t need my tears—they needed facts.
Benjamin never once looked up. Scarlet did. Her eyes stayed locked on me, dark and burning with something between hate and regret.
When I stepped down, the courtroom felt colder.
The defense tried to paint me as a scorned woman, a bitter ex-lover seeking revenge.
“She fabricated this to punish them,” Scarlet’s attorney said. “She was jealous.”
But the evidence was airtight. The bank records, the marriage certificate, the emails—all damning, all real.
In the end, the jury didn’t take long. Six hours of deliberation.
When they returned, the air went still.
“On the count of embezzlement,” the foreman said, “we find the defendant, Benjamin Thompson, guilty.”
Benjamin’s head dropped.
“On the count of judicial corruption, we find the defendant, Scarlet Blackwood, guilty.”
Scarlet didn’t flinch.
The judge’s gavel came down like thunder.
“Benjamin Thompson is hereby sentenced to eight years in federal prison. Scarlet Blackwood, four years in state custody, with immediate disbarment.”
The gallery erupted in whispers and flashing cameras.
Scarlet turned once more toward me as the bailiff cuffed her wrists. Her lips moved silently.
This isn’t over.
I met her gaze and mouthed back, Yes, it is.
Life after victory was quieter than I expected.
The papers moved on to newer scandals. The neighbors stopped whispering. The school took me back with open arms, calling me “brave,” “resilient,” “inspiring.”
But inside, I felt hollow.
Justice was supposed to heal. Instead, it left a scar that didn’t fade.
Some nights, I’d lie awake replaying every detail—the sound of her voice, the look on his face, the way their lives unraveled. I’d thought I wanted them ruined, but watching it happen hadn’t filled the emptiness they’d left behind.
The human heart, I learned, doesn’t always know the difference between victory and loss.
Still, I rebuilt. Slowly. Methodically.
I replaced the curtains, painted the kitchen, planted new roses in the garden. I donated Benjamin’s old suits, boxed up every photo of Scarlet, scrubbed her perfume from the walls.
By the end of the year, the house no longer felt haunted.
Until the letter came.
It arrived one morning in a plain white envelope, no return address. The postmark: California State Correctional Facility.
I didn’t need to open it to know who it was from.
Still, I did.
Chloe,
I know you hate me. You have every reason to. But you should know that I don’t hate you. Not anymore. In a way, I understand now. We were both broken—me by the curse, you by love. I told myself I was different from my mother, but I was wrong. The Blackwood blood always wins.I don’t expect forgiveness. But I hope one day you’ll see that what I did wasn’t about taking Benjamin from you—it was about proving to myself that I could have what you had. I thought that would make me whole. Instead, it hollowed me out.
I’ll survive this. The curse won’t end with me. It never does.
—Scarlet
I read it twice. Then again.
For a long time, I just sat there, the paper trembling in my hands.
Part of me wanted to rip it apart. The other part—the part that still remembered the little girl who’d shared her crayons, who’d cried when I broke my arm—wanted to believe she meant it.
But curses aren’t broken by apologies.
I folded the letter and placed it in the wooden box from the attic, alongside Linda Blackwood’s warning.
Mother and daughter. Sin and consequence. Both written in ink that never fades.
Months passed. The world spun forward.
Benjamin’s company collapsed. His name disappeared from the county business directory. Scarlet’s law license was revoked.
I almost started to feel free again.
Until the phone rang one spring morning.
“Miss Carter?”
“Yes.”
“This is Agent Morrison from the FBI Los Angeles field office. I’m afraid I have some difficult news.”
My throat went dry. “What happened?”
“It’s about Scarlet Blackwood,” she said. “She was found dead in her cell last night.”
The room tilted. “Dead? How?”
“Suicide,” the agent said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken, pressing against my chest.
Scarlet. Dead.
Just like her mother. Just like the letter had predicted.
“Did she—did she leave anything?” I asked.
“Yes,” Morrison said. “A letter. Addressed to you.”
The agent’s voice softened. “I’ll bring it by this afternoon.”
When she arrived, she handed me a sealed envelope, my name written in Scarlet’s handwriting—delicate, looping, strangely calm.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Take care of yourself, Miss Carter,” she replied. “These stories never end neatly.”
When she left, I stood alone in my living room, staring at the letter like it might bite.
Finally, I opened it.
Chloe,
By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. I can’t live with what I’ve done. I can’t live with what I am. You were right about me—the curse is real. Everything I touch turns to ash. Everyone I love dies, including me.I wanted to hate you, but I couldn’t. Even now, I don’t. You were the only good thing I ever had, and I destroyed you because that’s what I do. You deserved better than me. You always did.
I’m sorry. For everything.
—Scarlet
The paper shook in my hands.
For the first time in a long while, tears came easily. Quiet, relentless tears that blurred the ink until her words melted into black stains.
Scarlet was gone. The Blackwood curse had claimed another.
But somewhere deep inside, I wondered if it had claimed me, too.
Because even in victory, even in justice, there was always loss.
And the one thing that still haunted me wasn’t the betrayal—it was that, despite everything, a part of me still loved her.
The next morning, the world felt different.
The air outside carried that heavy stillness that follows a storm—the kind that smells like wet soil and endings.
Scarlet Blackwood was dead.
And I was alive.
Agent Morrison called again that afternoon.
“Miss Carter,” she said gently, “there’s something else you should know.”
My chest tightened. “What now?”
“Scarlet left detailed instructions in her will. You’re her sole beneficiary.”
I blinked. “I—what?”
“She had a life insurance policy through the firm, plus an inheritance from her adoptive parents. About half a million dollars. She wanted you to have all of it.”
“I don’t want her money.”
“Miss Carter, I understand. But legally, it’s yours unless you refuse it. She also requested that her personal effects—her jewelry, her journals, her photographs—be delivered to you. She was… very specific.”
I wanted to scream. To ask what kind of cruel joke the universe thought this was.
Instead, I whispered, “Fine. Send whatever you need to. I’ll deal with it.”
Morrison hesitated. “She said it was her way of making amends.”
Amends.
The word hit like a slap. There were no amends for what Scarlet had done. No amount of money could rewrite the past or bring back the version of me that believed in love, in loyalty, in family.
But when the courier arrived days later with a brown box sealed in evidence tape, I couldn’t bring myself to refuse it.
Inside were the pieces of a life that no longer existed: gold earrings, a pearl bracelet, framed certificates, photos of Scarlet with colleagues, smiling beside Benjamin in moments that looked like advertisements for happiness.
At the bottom, wrapped in soft linen, was a leather-bound journal.
The first page was blank.
The second began with a date—six months before my birthday.
I think I love him. I know I shouldn’t. He’s hers. But when he looks at me, I forget who I am supposed to be. Maybe this is what the curse feels like—not evil, just inevitable.
The entries spiraled from there—desire, guilt, denial, confession. The final page stopped midsentence:
Sometimes I dream that Chloe forgives me. Sometimes I dream she doesn’t. I don’t know which dream hurts more.
I closed the book and pressed it to my chest, feeling her ghost in every word.
For the first time, I saw Scarlet not as my betrayer, but as something tragic—another Blackwood woman lost to her own fire.
And maybe, just maybe, her last act was an attempt to douse it.
Weeks passed. Spring melted into summer. The roses bloomed brighter than ever, thick with color and life.
I used part of Scarlet’s inheritance to start something new—The Linda Blackwood Foundation, named after her mother. A nonprofit for women who’d survived betrayal, manipulation, or domestic abuse.
It felt right somehow. Turning a legacy of destruction into something that might heal.
When the local paper interviewed me, the reporter asked, “Do you forgive her?”
I thought about it for a long moment. The memories flickered behind my eyes—the sound of Benjamin’s voice, the echo of Scarlet’s laughter, the blood drop on the cake.
“I don’t know if forgiveness is the right word,” I said finally. “But I don’t hate her anymore.”
And I meant it.
Because hate was just another chain, and I’d spent enough of my life bound to ghosts.
A year later, the house finally felt like mine again.
The walls no longer whispered. The shadows no longer lingered.
I’d painted the kitchen pale blue, filled the shelves with fresh cookbooks, and started teaching art therapy on weekends. My students called me “Miss Chloe,” and their laughter filled spaces that once held silence.
Then, one afternoon, I heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway.
When I looked out the window, a blue pickup truck was pulling up beside the old oak tree.
I recognized it instantly.
Skyler Miles.
We’d gone to high school together, dated briefly in college before life pulled us in different directions. He’d become a veterinarian in town, a single dad with a ten-year-old daughter named Lily.
He stepped out of the truck holding a small box wrapped in brown paper.
I opened the door before he could knock. “Skyler,” I said, smiling despite myself.
“Hey, Chloe,” he said, that familiar warmth in his voice. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
“Not at all.”
He handed me the box. “My clinic’s fundraiser auction was last week. Someone donated these chocolates from a new artisan shop in L.A. I remember you used to live for dark chocolate, so I thought—”
“That I’d need another reason to get addicted again?” I teased.
He laughed. “Something like that.”
We talked on the porch for over an hour. About work. About his daughter. About anything but the past.
When the sun began to set, he cleared his throat. “I know this might be forward, but… would you like to have dinner sometime? As friends. Or… maybe not just friends.”
For a long moment, I said nothing.
I thought of Benjamin’s betrayal, Scarlet’s curse, the years of grief and rebuilding. The scars still ached sometimes—but they no longer bled.
“I’d like that,” I said softly.
His smile was the kind that didn’t hurt to look at. “Saturday night, then? There’s a new Italian place by the river.”
“It’s a date.”
When he left, the driveway filled with the hum of cicadas and the scent of blooming jasmine. I stood on the porch watching his taillights fade into the dusky horizon, and for the first time in years, I felt something that wasn’t pain.
Hope.
That night, I sat in the garden under the stars. The air was cool, sweet with the perfume of roses.
I thought about the curse—the way Aunt Rose had whispered about it like an unshakable prophecy. Everything you touch turns to ash.
Maybe that had been true for the women who came before me. Linda. Scarlet. Maybe they hadn’t known another way to live.
But I did.
Because love didn’t have to destroy. It could rebuild, too.
And maybe, just maybe, that was how the curse ended—not with vengeance or blood, but with choosing to live differently.
I looked toward the house, its windows glowing warm against the darkness. My grandmother’s portrait hung in the hallway, watching over me. The same house that had held betrayal, rage, and grief now hummed with peace.
I whispered into the night, “It’s over.”
The wind rustled through the roses, gentle, almost like an answer.
Months later, Skyler and I drove to the coast for the first time. His daughter, Lily, fell asleep in the back seat with her head against the window, the Pacific glittering beyond the cliffs.
Skyler reached over and took my hand. “You okay?”
I smiled. “Yeah. More than okay.”
He squeezed my fingers gently. “You deserve that.”
I turned to look out the window. The ocean stretched endlessly before us, blue and alive.
Maybe life wasn’t about erasing the past, but learning how to carry it without letting it drown you.
And as the sun dipped low, I thought about all the versions of me that had existed—the broken woman with a knife in her hand, the one who’d sought revenge, the one who’d buried her ghosts—and realized they were all still here, all still part of me.
Just quieter now. Softer.
Every morning, I still walk through my garden before work. The roses have grown wild, spilling over the stone borders, their petals deep red, nearly black at the edges.
Sometimes I catch a faint scent of Scarlet’s old perfume, or hear the creak of the attic above, and I wonder if the Blackwood women are still watching—if they see me living, laughing, loving, and know that I did what they couldn’t.
That I broke the cycle.
That I chose love over destruction.
I kneel among the roses, touch the soil, and whisper a silent prayer—not of forgiveness, not of grief, but of gratitude.
For survival. For strength. For the second chance I never thought I’d get.
When I stand, the morning sun warms my face.
Somewhere, in a life that once felt cursed, I have found peace.
And this time, I know it will last.
Because this story—the story that began with betrayal and blood on vanilla frosting—no longer belongs to them.
It belongs to me.
And it ends here.
