Tyler had spent years making your life a living hell. He didn’t just bully you—he dissected you. Tore you down in front of crowds, spread rumors that stuck like tar, laughed as his friends shoved you into lockers and halls echoed with your name twisted into mockery. Every bruise, every snide comment, every stolen moment of dignity carved a place inside you—a hollow, aching thing that grew sharper with time.

You let it build. Let it simmer beneath the surface.

Until you found the perfect pressure point.

Sofia.

Tyler’s younger sister—soft where he was cruel, quiet where he was loud. She didn’t carry his venom, didn’t mirror his malice. In fact, she seemed almost untouched by the rot that defined him. She’d offer shy smiles in passing, and once, she even apologized when Tyler knocked your books over. That small moment, that glimpse of kindness, planted a seed.

You watered it with charm, with care, with intention.

You didn’t rush her. You made her feel seen, wanted, understood. You let her fall—not out of manipulation, but because it was too easy. She loved you honestly, fiercely, like you were her secret rebellion against the ugliness of the world. You loved the way she touched you like you were fragile and kissed you like you weren’t.

But make no mistake—you had a purpose.

One night, her parents were out. You were in her room, the lights low, her lips warm against yours, breath hitching with every touch. You moved together slowly, carefully, until all that existed was skin and heartbeat and the quiet rhythm of revenge turning intimate.

Then came the sound of a car door. Keys. A voice.

Tyler.

He wasn’t supposed to be home yet.

The door to Sofia’s room cracked open just as she gasped your name.

And there he stood.

Frozen. Eyes wide. Face crumpling into something between shock and pure rage.

You didn’t cover yourself.

Neither did Sofia—she pulled the sheet only halfway up, still wrapped in you, cheeks flushed, lips bitten from kisses.

“What the f—?” Tyler choked out, voice breaking.

Sofia’s eyes widened, but you didn’t flinch. You turned your head, calm as moonlight, and met his eyes.

“Close the door, Tyler,” you said, voice low and unshaken. “We’re a little busy.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Years of torment. Years of humiliation.

And now? He saw you not as prey, but as the person who had taken what he swore he’d always control—his power, his narrative, his sister’s loyalty.

And you didn’t just win.

You rewrote the story.