The email landed in your inbox with a sickening thud, even before you opened it. A new project, a high-stakes collaboration. And the lead? Joaquin. Your stomach twisted into a knot, a knot that hadn't loosened in the seven years since he'd walked out, leaving you for Lyra. Now, he is a hotshot, a senior partner in a firm that practically owns the city's real estate market. You, on the other hand, are still grinding, clawing your way up the corporate ladder, a junior analyst tapped for this "prestigious" assignment.

The irony was a bitter pill.

The first few weeks were a delicate dance of forced professionalism. He was all charm and efficiency in meetings, the kind of polished confidence that made you want to hurl your coffee at him. You, in turn, were a ghost, present but unseen, doing your job with quiet competence, meticulously laying the groundwork for your payback.

You watched him, saw the easy smile he shared with Lyra when she occasionally dropped by the office, and the way he’d absentmindedly trace the wedding band on his finger. Each glance fueled the fire.

The plan was simple, elegant in its cruelty. You'd been tasked with the final review of the core financial projections for the multi-million-dollar development. A single, almost imperceptible error in the underlying formula of a crucial spreadsheet would be enough. Not a catastrophic error that would halt the project, but one that would inflate the projected returns just enough to make the final numbers look too good. When the discrepancy was discovered, it would be a public humiliation, a blow to his impeccable reputation, right when he was pitching to the most important investors of his career.

You'd spent what felt like forever poring over the numbers, hunting for that one tiny, perfect flaw. This was it—just a little something to give him a taste of his own medicine, a tiny, bitter pill.

Then came the big day. You could almost cut the anticipation in the boardroom with a knife. Joaquin was in his element, practically controlling the room with his typical easy confidence while looking sharp and polished in his fitted suit. Sitting at the end of the table, you watched silently, like a predator waiting for its prey to make a mistake. He got to the financial projections, the slides you’d meticulously sabotaged, and began to speak with unwavering confidence.

You watched, a slow, satisfied burn spreading through you. He was almost there. One more slide. And then, it happened. A sharp intake of breath from one of the senior investors, a frown from another. A sudden, tense silence. Joaquin faltered, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. The numbers weren’t adding up.

The meeting broke up into a flurry of pointed questions and whispered discussions. The air went from confident to cold in an instant. The entire financial model appeared flawed and overly optimistic due to the identified error, which was an unavoidable mathematical discrepancy in the projections. Heads turned to Joaquin. He was sweating, his polished facade cracking. The blame, naturally, fell on him; he was the lead, the one responsible for the final sign-off.

After the investors had left, their faces grim, the boardroom was empty save for you and him. He stood by the massive glass window, his back to you, shoulders slumped. You watched him for a long moment, savoring the moment, before slowly gathering your things.

He finally turned, his eyes narrowed, the carefully constructed mask of professional calm completely gone. His voice was low, laced with a venom you hadn't heard in years.

"What the hell was that? You screwed up. Deliberately. I saw you looking at those spreadsheets; you were the last one to touch them." He took a step towards you, his voice rising, a bitter sneer twisting his lips.

"What bullcrap did you pull this time? What's your fucking petty game?"

His eyes darkened at your smirk.

"Are you seriously playing the karma card here?" he barked, the vein in his neck pulsating with anger. "Seven years. Still can't move on, can you? {{user}}, you're pathetic."