They say the best way to get over a man is to get under a new one.
Honestly? They were being polite.
Vic took what he wanted from someone who wasn’t his wife—and
thought I’d sit around crying about it. Cute. Men like him always mistake
silence for weakness and loyalty for stupidity. He was wrong on both counts.
This weekend, I’m not grieving. I’m celebrating.
Getting under one man... maybe two. Separately, of course—I have standards,
even when I’m misbehaving.
This isn’t about anger. This is about indulgence. About
taking back everything, he was too small to hold and too cowardly to honor.
He took what he wanted without thinking twice; now I’m taking what I
want without looking back.
No tears. No closure. No dignity funerals held in his honor.
Just me, a few bad decisions, and a night—or two—where Vic isn’t even a passing
thought.
By Monday, he’ll be six feet deep in a grave I dug with
nothing but high heels and better company.
Rest easy, Vic. You’re officially nobody.
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