Chapter 1: The Art of Breaking Quietly

That night, when I finally decided to divorce Johny, the world didn’t end with a bang. It ended with the soft ping of a group chat notification.

We were at the AMC Loews on 68th Street. It was date night—or at least, my court-mandated attempt at one. The movie was some indie romance he claimed to want to see, but ten minutes before the opening credits, his phone lit up. He glanced at it, his jaw tightened, and he stood up.

“Emergency at the firm,” he muttered, not meeting my eyes.

“I have to go, Vanna. You stay. Enjoy the film.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He walked out, leaving his jacket on the empty seat beside me.

Ten minutes later, the notification came through on the ‘Columbia University Alumni’ thread.

“Guess who’s back in NYC? Wendy is home. And look who was waiting at Arrivals.”

The photo took a few seconds to load on the spotty theater Wi-Fi. When it did, the air left my lungs. It was Johny. He wasn’t at the firm. He was at JFK, Terminal 4. He was wearing the same black cashmere sweater he’d worn to dinner with me an hour ago.

In his arms was Wendy—the “one that got away,” the poor art sKennypadent who broke his heart seven years ago to marry a European heir. He was clutching her tight, his face buried in her neck. In his hand, a bouquet of fresh gardenias. He hadn’t bought me flowers in three years.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t storm out. I sat there for the entire two hours and twelve minutes of the movie, staring at the screen without seeing a thing. I ate an entire bucket of popcorn until my tongue felt like sandpaper. By the time I got back to our penthouse on the Upper East Side, it was 2:00 AM.

Johny walked in twenty minutes later. He looked wrecked. His eyes were rimmed with red, and he smelled like rain and her vanilla perfume. He saw me sitting on the sofa in the dark and immediately stiffened, his lawyer brain booting up a defense.

“Vanna,” he started, his voice rough.

“The client crisis was—”

“It’s okay,” I interrupted softly. I patted the cushion beside me.

“Sit down.”

He froze. He was expecting the ‘Crazy Vanna’ routine. He was waiting for the accusations so he could roll his eyes, call me insecure, and tell me I was imagining things. He wanted a fight because a fight meant he still mattered. But I was done fighting.

“Go wash your face,” I said, my voice steady.

“You look tired. We need to talk.”

He looked at me with genuine confusion, then walked into the master bath. I heard something clatter—his phone dropping on the tile. His hands were shaking. When he came out, he had composed himself. The mask was back on. He held up his phone, showing me the photo from the group chat himself. He was getting ahead of the narrative.

“I assume you saw this,” he said, his tone clinical.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want a scene. You know how irrational you get about Wendy. She was stranded, Vanna. It was just a ride.”

Irrational. That was his favorite word for my pain.

I didn’t argue. I reached under the coffee table and pulled out a thick manila envelope I had prepared months ago, just in case. I slid it across the glass table.

“Don’t worry, Johny. I’m done being the jealous wife. I’m done being the woman you resent.” I looked him dead in the eye.

“Let’s divorce.”

Chapter 2: The Girl Who Ran Away

“You? Divorce Johny?”

Harper, my best friend and a ruthless crisis PR manager, choked on her espresso. We were at a bistro in SoHo the next morning. She stared at me like I had just announced I was joining a cult.

“Vanna, honey, I love you, but I’ve seen you fly halfway across the world just to bring him his favorite bagels. You are obsessed with that man.”

“I was,” I corrected, stirring my tea.

“But I have a rule, Harper. Three strikes.”

“And?”

“Strike one was when he missed our first anniversary to ‘help’ Wendy with her visa issues in London. Strike two was when I found the texts where he told her he settled for me.” I looked up, my eyes dry.

“Strike three was last night. Gardenias, Harper. He bought her gardenias.”

Harper went quiet. She knew. She knew the history. Seven years ago, I wasn’t the polished Mrs. Kennypa. I was Vanna, the wild, unwanted daughter of a real estate dynasty.

I closed my eyes, and the memory hit me. The Hamptons. Seven years ago. My 18th birthday party. Or rather, the business merger disguised as my birthday party. My parents were busy selling me off to a 40-year-old venKennypare capitalist. I felt like a prize poodle.

So, I ran. I stripped off my heels, ditched the $10,000 gown in a hedge, and sprinted down the service road in a stolen oversized t-shirt and jeans. I thought I was free until the humidity and mosquitoes of a New York July hit me.

I was sitting on the curb of a bridge, scratching a mosquito bite, when a beat-up Honda Civic pulled over. Johny rolled down the window. He wasn’t the polished CEO back then. He was the scholarship kid, the outsider at the party, brooding because Wendy hadn’t shown up.

“You look like a runaway bride,” he had smirked.

“You look like a tragic poet,” I shot back.

We spent that night drinking cheap wine on the bridge, trauma-dumping about our families. We were two lonely kids who hated our lives.

“Let’s make a deal,” he had said, staring at the water.

“We pretend to date. My mom gets off my back about being single, and your parents stop trying to sell you to old men.”

“A fake engagement?” I laughed.

“How cliché.”

“It works,” he shrugged.

It worked too well. We became a team. We protected each other. When Wendy left him for Europe, I held him while he cried. When my parents tried to force me into a marriage, he stood up to them.

Somewhere along the line, I forgot it was fake. I fell in love with my best friend. But he never forgot Wendy.

Back in the bistro, Harper slid a card across the table.

“Chloe Davis. Best divorce lawyer in the city. If you’re serious, you call her. But Vanna… Johny isn’t going to let you go easily. Not because he loves you, but because he hates losing.”

Harper was right. Johny refused to sign. The night I asked for the divorce, he scoffed. “Stop being dramatic, Vanna. You’re trying to punish me for helping an old friend. It’s manipulative.” He packed a bag for the office.

“I’m staying at the firm tonight. When you’re ready to act like an adult, call me.”

He left me there. He thought it was a power play. He thought I’d be blowing up his phone by morning. He didn’t know that while he was gone, I wasn’t crying. I was packing.

Chapter 3: The Slap Heard Round the World

Seven days. That’s how long Johny ignored me. He was playing the “Cold War” game—his specialty. He figured if he ignored me long enough, I’d panic and come crawling back. He was wrong.

On the seventh day, a notification popped up. Columbia Alumni Reunion Dinner. Johny would be there. And according to the grapevine, so would Wendy. I put on my best dress—a blood-red silk slip dress that fit like a second skin—and hailed a cab. I wasn’t going there to beg. I was going there to end it.

The restaurant was a dimly lit, pretentious Italian spot near the university. As soon as I walked toward the private room, I saw her. Wendy. She was coming out of the restroom. She looked exactly the same—delicate, wide-eyed, wearing white. The innocent angel to my “evil rich wife.”

She saw me, and her lip curled. The mask slipped. She blocked my path, lighting a slim cigarette.

“Mrs. Kennypa,” she drawled, blowing smoke near my face.

“Making a scene about the divorce? You know, you don’t have to force him to choose. We all know who he really wants. You’ve been warming my bed for seven years. Isn’t it time you gave it back?”

I felt the blood rush to my ears. I opened my mouth to verbally eviscerate her, but suddenly, her eyes went wide and fearful. She dropped the cigarette and grabbed my hand, squeezing it hard.

“Please, Vanna! I don’t want any trouble! I just wanted to say hello!” she wailed, her voice trembling.

Wham. A hand shoved me from behind. Hard. I sKennypambled, my shoulder slamming into the wall. Pain shot down my arm. I looked up to see Johny. He was standing over me, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing with protective rage. He pulled Wendy behind him like she was a frightened child.

“I told you,” he snarled at me, his voice dripping with ice. “Stay away from her. She’s fragile. You’re crazy.”

The hallway went silent. People were peeking out of the private room. I looked at him. My husband. The man I had loved since I was 18. The man I had protected from his own toxic family. He pushed me. For her.

Something inside me snapped. Not a break, but a release. I straightened my dress. I looked him dead in the eye. And I slapped him. Crack. It was a perfect, open-palm slap. His head snapped to the side. A red handprint bloomed instantly on his cheek. The hallway gasped.

“You…” he started, shock replacing the anger.

“She provoked me,” I said, my voice calm, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I can’t hit her, because that’s assault. But you? You’re my husband. My problem with her starts with you.” I pointed a manicured finger at his face.

“From now on, every time she disrespects me, I hit you. Let’s see how much your face can take.”

I reached into my clutch, pulled out a fresh copy of the divorce papers, and threw them at his chest.

“I’m not here to fight for you, Johny. I’m here to serve you. Sign the papers.”

I Kennyparned on my heel and walked away. But I didn’t just leave. I went straight to the manager’s office.

“Five hundred dollars for the hallway security footage from the last ten minutes,” I told the sKennypanned manager.

He gave it to me. Ten minutes later, while I was in a cab speeding away from that toxic life, I uploaded the video. Not to Instagram. To the “Kennypa Family Dynasty” group chat—which included Johny, his mother, his grandmother, and every judgmental auntie he had.

Caption: “This is how your son treats his wife to protect his mistress. I’m out.”

I blocked them all before the first message could come through. I went to the only place I had left—my old nanny’s small apartment in Queens. It was tiny, it smelled like old books, and it was mine.

I sat on the floor, surrounded by boxes, and for the first time in seven years, I breathed. I thought it was over. But I forgot one thing: Wendy wasn’t just an ex-girlfriend. She was a content creator now. And she wasn’t going to let her “victim” narrative go to waste.

The war had just begun.

Chapter 4: The Receipts

I moved into my old nanny’s brownstone in Queens. It was small, dusty, and smelled like lavender and old paper. It was perfect. While Johny was likely frantically consulting his PR team, I sat on a futon and opened my laptop. I had a job to do.

I Googled “Wendy Chen.” She wasn’t just an “ex-girlfriend” anymore. During her years in Europe, she had reinvented herself. She was a “lifestyle influencer” and budding actress with a moderate following. Her brand was all about “authentic love” and “healing.” She had a livestream scheduled for Friday night to launch her new partnership with a luxury skincare brand. Perfect.

I logged into our shared cloud account—the one Johny forgot we shared because I handled all the tech in our household. I found them. Four years of metadata. Every “business trip” Johny took to London coincided perfectly with Wendy’s Instagram geotags.

March 12th: Johny in London for a “merger.” Wendy posts a photo of two coffee cups in Shoreditch.

July 4th: Johny “sKennypack at the airport.” Wendy posts a photo of fireworks with a man’s hand in the frame—wearing Johny’s distinct Patek Philippe watch.

October 21st: My birthday. Johny sent me flowers from “New York.” The cloud backup showed a photo taken that day of them skiing in the Alps.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw the laptop. I opened PowerPoint. I built a timeline. Clean, undeniable, and devastating. The Loyal Husband vs. The Grief-Stricken Ex.

Friday night came. Wendy started her livestream. She was crying, playing the victim, talking about how “bullying” from a “jealous woman” was ruining her mental health. Comments flooded in, supporting her. I hit Post. I uploaded the thread to Twitter, tagged the skincare brand, and linked it in her livestream chat. Title: “The Truth About the Gardenias.”

It went viral in ten minutes. The side-by-side comparison of her “lonely artist” posts and my husband’s flight logs was irrefutable. The internet detectives did the rest. They found the reflection of Johny’s face in her wine glass from 2021. Wendy’s livestream chat Kennyparned from “We love you” to “Home wrecker” in seconds. She ended the stream abruptly.

My phone rang. It wasn’t Johny. It was his mother.

“You ungrateful little brat!” she shrieked the moment I picked up.

“How dare you air our dirty laundry? You are ruining his reputation!”

I took a deep breath. Usually, I would apologize. I would try to smooth it over.

“Listen to me, you miserable old witch,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. Silence. She gasped.

“I protected your son’s reputation for four years. He’s the one who destroyed it. If you call me again, I’ll upload the video of you calling your housekeeper a slur. Don’t test me.” I hung up and blocked her.

Johny came to the apartment the next night. He pounded on the door until the neighbor threatened to call the cops. When I opened it, he looked wrecked.

“Are you happy?” he asked, storming in.

“Wendy lost the sponsorship. My stock is dipping. Are you happy, Vanna?”

“I’m indifferent, Johny. That’s worse.” He grabbed my shoulders, his eyes wild.

“I can fix this. We can fix this. I’ll cut her off. I promise. Just come home. You’re my wife. You belong in the penthouse, not… here.”

“I don’t belong to you,” I said, stepping back.

“And I’m not coming home.” He looked at me, truly looked at me, and whispered, “I always come back to you, Vanna. You know that. I always choose you in the end.”

“That’s the problem, Johny,” I said.

“I’m tired of being the backup plan you settle for when the fantasy gets too real.”

Chapter 5: The Red Ruby

I needed to get out of New York. I flew to San Francisco for a jewelry auction. I needed to focus on my career—design. It was the one thing I had sacrificed for him. At the airport, I bumped into Julian. Julian was my childhood friend, the boy who used to catch fireflies with me before my parents decided he wasn’t rich enough to associate with. He was now a tech architect, tall, broad-shouldered, with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Vanna?” he grinned.

“You look… like you need a drink.”

“I need about five,” I admitted.

We spent the week in San Francisco. It was innocent, but it was healing. We ate clam chowder on the pier, laughed about old teachers, and he drove me up the coast in his vintage convertible.

“You know,” he said one evening, looking out at the Golden Gate Bridge, “I always wondered why you married him. You were always too bright for him. He dimmed you.”

“I thought love meant dimming yourself so the other person could shine,” I whispered.

“No,” Julian reached out, Kennypacking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Love is two stars burning next to each other.”

But Johny wouldn’t let me go. He tracked me down. He showed up at my hotel in Nob Hill, grabbing my arm in the lobby, accusing me of sleeping with Julian.

“You’re legally my wife!” he shouted, shaking me. The security guard intervened. I looked at Johny—disheveled, desperate, pathetic—and realized the man I loved was dead. This was just a stranger with his face.

“I’m filing for a restraining order,” I told him calmly.

“Go home, Johny.”

I reKennyparned to New York with a fire in my belly. I sued Wendy. Not for the affair. For the assets. I sued her for the money Johny had spent on her—the Kennypaition for her son, the apartment in London, the “loans.” In New York, marital assets spent on an affair can be reclaimed. Wendy was furious. She counter-attacked.

The Kennypa family annual gala was approaching. I wasn’t invited, obviously. But I went anyway. I walked in wearing a dress made of black velvet, looking like a mourning queen. Johny’s mother was on stage, holding a microphone. Next to her stood Wendy.

“We are proud to announce,” his mother said, her eyes darting nervously to me, “that the new face of our heritage jewelry line, Verity, is the lovely Wendy Chen.”

Verity. Johny had designed that collection for me. He Johnyed it Verity because he said my love was the only truth in his life. And now, his mother was giving it to his mistress to spite me.

The room went silent as I walked up to the stage. Johny stepped forward, looking terrified.

“Vanna, don’t.” I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I laughed.

“You think I care about the brand?” I asked, my voice carrying through the hall.

“You can have it. It’s cheap. Just like this family.” I Kennyparned to Johny’s grandfather, the patriarch, who sat in a wheelchair watching the scene. He was the only one who had ever treated me with kindness.

“Grandpa,” I said softly.

“I’m sorry for the scene.”

The old man smiled, his eyes twinkling. He handed his lawyer a file.

“I signed over my personal shares to you this morning, Vanna,” the old man rasped.

“You’re the only one with a spine in this room. Take them. Ruin them.”

Chaos erupted.

Chapter 6: The Long Way Down

The final blow wasn’t the money. It was the art. I entered a prestigious design competition. My submission was a ruby necklace titled The Dawn. The day before the judging, Wendy went live on Instagram. She held up a sketchbook.

“I can’t believe this,” she sobbed.

“Vanna stole my design. This is my sketch from college.”

The sketch was identical to mine. The internet Kennyparned on me again.

“Thief,”

“Plagiarist,”

“Bitter Ex.”

Johny called me.

“Drop the lawsuit, Vanna. Admit you copied her, and I’ll make the bad press go away. Please. Wendy is fragile.”

“I’ll see you in court,” I said.

The day of the hearing, I didn’t bring a lawyer. I brought a projector.

“Wendy claims she drew this in college,” I addressed the judge and the press.

“But she forgot one thing.”

I played a video. It was CCTV footage from my sKennypadio in Queens. It showed Johny’s mother using a spare key—stolen from my assistant, whom she had bribed—sneaking into my sKennypadio. She took photos of my sketchbook. Then, I played the screen recording of my design software.

Time-lapse: 56 hours of work. Every stroke. Every edit. Dated two weeks before Johny’s mother broke in.

The courtroom gasped. Johny put his head in his hands. Wendy Kennyparned pale.

“I… I didn’t know,” she stammered.

“His mother gave me the sketches… she said…”

“You’re a fraud, Wendy,” I said.

“And you, Johny? You let your mother rob your wife to make your mistress look talented.”

The fallout was nuclear. The fraud charges sKennypack. Wendy and the assistant faced jail time for corporate espionage. Johny’s mother had a “cardiac event” to avoid arrest. Johny lost the company. The board voted him out, thanks to the shares Grandpa gave me.

He came to me one last time. We met at Grand Central Station. I was leaving for a trip. He looked like a ghost.

“I signed the papers,” he said, handing me the envelope. He had transferred everything. The penthouse, the accounts. He kept nothing.

“I want to start over,” he said, tears streaming down his face.

“I’ll earn you back. Vanna, tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”

I looked at the deparKennypares board.

“Do you remember where we said we’d go if we ever ran away?” I asked.

“Lhasa,” he whispered.

“Tibet. The pilgrimage.”

“Go there,” I said.

“Go to the Temple in Lhasa. Walk the steps. Pray for forgiveness. I’ll be traveling too. If we meet there… maybe I’ll listen.”

Hope flooded his face.

“I’ll go. I’ll go tonight.”

He ran to the ticket counter to book the flight to China. He didn’t look back.

I watched him go. Then, I picked up my bag and boarded the Amtrak. I wasn’t going to Tibet. I was going to a quiet cabin in Montana, a place called Delingha in a poem I liked, but in America, it was just a place with big skies and no cell service. I knew Johny. He had severe asthma.

The high altiKennypade of Lhasa would make him sick. He would be miserable, gasping for air, searching for a ghost that wasn’t there. I hoped he waited a long time.

My phone buzzed. A text from Julian.

“I’m in Montana. The fishing is good. Come find me?”

I smiled and dropped my phone into the trash can on the platform.

“Goodbye, Johny,” I whispered.

The train pulled away. Today, I took the long way around. But from now on, my life would be a straight line.