Behind me, the elevator doors slid shut.
I pulled out my phone, rereading the post until the sickening truth sank in.
The OP had to be Rowan.
It all started during cherry blossom season at the University of Washington.
He was the campus heartthrob—proud, untouchable, and from a blue-collar family.
Even I couldn't believe my relentless persistence had actually won him over.
We spent the next four years joined at the hip.
After a whirlwind romance, Rowan went to the University of Cambridge for his PhD, and I broke up with him abruptly. We'd had no contact since.
Now, the post was continuing to heat up.
Users offered all sorts of advice, guiding Rowan, the victim, on how to get revenge on the "bitch."
The top-voted reply was this:
[I'm a professional revenge-novel writer. OP, listen to me, and I guarantee it'll be done in three easy steps—]
[Step 1: Go get a glass of water.]
[Step 2: Casually flex your current success and social status. Humiliate her. Hard.]
[Your ex is getting an abortion alone, so she's probably broke and miserable. She must be filled with regret right now.]
[Step 3: Make a contemptuous comment, then turn and walk away with a flourish, leaving her with an unforgettable image of your back!]
Someone asked curiously:
[I get the routine, but what's Step 1 for?]
The person explained:
[The glass of water is a crucial prop.]
[For offense, you can preemptively splash it in her face. For defense, if you forget your killer comeback, you can take a sip to hide your awkwardness...]
Beneath a long string of "Got it" replies, Rowan's response was particularly concise and striking:
[Got it.]
Before I could even react, a "ding" sounded from behind me—the elevator had arrived again.
A chill ran down my spine.
I turned my head just in time to see Rowan striding out of the elevator, a cup of green liquid clutched in his hand as he walked purposefully toward me.
My eyes widened. No way. He can't be serious.
As Rowan raised the cup, alarm bells went off in my head. I instinctively stumbled back, bracing for a face full of ice-cold liquid.
However, Rowan just stopped in front of me.
He extended a long arm, holding the paper cup steady.
My heart still pounding, I blinked and looked at the liquid, then froze—
Wait... is that cold-pressed kale juice? Where did he even get that?
