KARA

The apartment was smaller than advertised, but it had good Wi-Fi and sat two floors below Eli D'Angelo's unit.

So really, it was perfect.

I dropped my duffel on the floor and stared at the blank walls, trying to remember the last time I'd moved somewhere with a plan this specific. Usually, I relocated for work—a client launching a campaign, a crisis that needed hands-on management. Clean, professional reasons with clean, professional outcomes.

This wasn't clean. Or professional.

I pulled out my laptop and opened a new document. At the top, I typed: CASSANDRA WESTCOTT - COMPREHENSIVE PROFILE.

Then I stared at the cursor blinking on the empty page.

What was I actually doing here?

For the first hour, I told myself I was just gathering information. Basic research. The kind I'd do for any client who needed reputation management or competitive analysis.

But as I scrolled through his social media, watched clips of his streams, read comment threads from fans who talked about him like they knew him personally—something twisted in my chest that had nothing to do with professional curiosity.

This was the man who'd made my sister feel worthless. Who'd made her believe she wasn't enough. Who'd walked away from her like she was nothing.

I saved a screenshot of him laughing at something off-camera, mid-stream. Even frozen, he looked confident. Self-assured. Like someone who'd never questioned whether he deserved good things.

Kira had questioned that every day.

I closed the laptop and paced the small apartment, trying to shake off the heaviness that always came when I thought about her too long.

Focus. I needed to focus on actionable steps.

***

The next morning, I positioned myself across from the coffee shop Cass frequented, armed with a notebook and what I told myself was purely observational intent.

He showed up at 10:47 AM, exactly when his location tags suggested he would. Tall, casual in the way that probably took effort, sunglasses pushed up on his head despite the overcast sky.

I watched him order—something complicated that made the barista smile and write his name with a little heart over the 'i'. He tipped well. Made small talk. Seemed genuinely friendly.

It would have been easier if he'd been obviously terrible.

When he left, the barista—a girl maybe twenty-two with purple streaks in her hair—was still smiling.

"Regular customer?" I asked, approaching the counter.

"Cass? Yeah, he's sweet. Always asks about my classes, remembers my dog's name." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Half the girls who come in here are hoping to run into him."

My stomach clenched. "Popular guy."

"I guess. But he's never, like, sleazy about it. Just friendly." She shrugged. "Can I get you something?"

I ordered a latte I didn't want and sat in the corner, staring at my phone.

This was supposed to be simpler. Cass was supposed to be a clear-cut villain. Someone I could hate without complications.

Instead, I was collecting evidence that he was... what? Nice to service workers? Remembered people's pets?

None of that changed what he'd done to Kira. None of it erased the weeks she'd spent checking her phone, waiting for texts that never came, crying in her car after work because she thought she'd imagined their connection.

But it made the plan feel heavier somehow. More complicated.

That night, I sat cross-legged on my bed with my laptop, trying to build the version of myself that would catch his attention.

Not the real me—the one who wore the same three hoodies in rotation and forgot to eat when I was deep in a project. The one who cried during pharmaceutical commercials and kept Kira's voicemails saved on my phone even though listening to them felt like swallowing glass.

This version would be confident. Mysterious. The kind of woman who wore red lipstick on a Tuesday and knew how to make silence feel like anticipation instead of awkwardness.

I spent two hours watching makeup tutorials, trying to perfect the art of looking effortless while being anything but.

The blonde wig arrived the next day. I tried it on, studying myself in the bathroom mirror, and for a moment, I looked like someone else entirely. Someone who might walk into a room and command attention without trying.

Someone who might make Cass Westcott want things he couldn't have.

The reflection staring back at me was beautiful in a way that felt borrowed. Temporary.

But it would do.

It had to.

The hardest part wasn't the research or the preparation or even the wig.

It was the moment I realized I was looking forward to it.

Not just the revenge. Not just the satisfaction of watching him fall for someone who would ultimately walk away.

I was curious about him. About whether the charming confidence was real or performance. About what made him laugh when he thought no one was watching. About whether he ever wondered if the way he moved through the world left damage in his wake.

I was curious about whether the man who'd broken my sister's heart was someone I might actually understand.

And that scared me more than failing.

Because understanding him would make everything so much harder.

But I'd come this far.

And Kira deserved better than my doubts.

The doubts made it worse, somehow. If I was going to go through with this, I needed to be strategic. Clinical. And that meant getting close to the source.

Cass didn’t trust easily. But he trusted Eli.

Eli D’Angelo. A tech-adjacent realist with an accountant’s posture and counselor energy.

The most boring man in the room—and therefore the most powerful.

People underestimated the best friend. I didn’t.

I found Eli’s address through a cross-reference of lease records and an old tagged birthday post.

The unit was in a quiet building above a sushi restaurant. Walk-up. Private. Affordable only if you didn’t mind the smell of teriyaki chicken every morning.

I booked an Airbnb two floors below his unit.

Then I waited.

The first three days were recon. I memorized his schedule.

Monday morning: gym, black duffel, grey hoodie.

Tuesday: groceries—Trader Joe’s, with a penchant for those ridiculous frozen croissants.

Wednesday: trash night. He always took it down late. Around 11:30.

And that’s when I made my move.

I timed it down to the minute.

The hoodie. The croissants. The second bag of trash in hand.

I stepped into the hallway just as he locked his door.

“Oh—sorry!” I said, pretending not to have been waiting behind mine. I smiled like I’d just finished brushing my teeth.

He paused. Nodded once. Gave the polite neighbor smile.

“Long day?” I asked, lifting my own bag in commiseration.

“Something like that.” He looked me over, not in a gross way, just a flicker of calculation.

People like him always scan before they engage.

“I’m Kara,” I said, shifting the bag to my left hand. “Moved in this week.”

“Eli,” he replied. “Welcome to the building. Don’t eat anything from the third floor fridge. That’s all I’ll say.”

I laughed. “Noted.”

We walked down together. I let the silence do the work. Didn’t rush to fill it. Didn’t overshare.

He dropped the trash bags, his and mine into the dumpster and turned. “So what brought you to this particular corner of the city?”

I shrugged. “Change. Needed one.”

He nodded like he understood that completely.