Guinevere Knox

Power, Prada and Pretty Payback After a decade of shared playlists, anniversaries, and trust, I found the threads unravelling all at once, like a sweater you pull too hard in the wrong direction. The revelation lands like a soggy confetti cannon, loud, ridiculous, and strangely glittering with truth. It wasn’t just one grand betrayal, but a thousand tiny acts that stitched a tapestry of deceit. Late nights, half-truths, messages that disappeared as if they never existed. So, I did what any stubborn woman with an aching heart would do: I followed the trail you left behind in all the places we called ours. The “Just friends,” phone calls, and a pocket of receipts from hotels that didn’t exist in our calendar. The more I looked, the more lies I found, a living map of him and the people he chose over us. I wanted more than a divorce. I wanted to make him suffer. So I hatched a plan, not born of malice alone, but of a bruised pride. I got an interview at the same multimillion-dollar real estate company where his voice became a rumour in the lobby. I’d prepared for a take-down until you walked in, The CEO. The one who could make a room lean forward with a single smirk. You spoke to me with a careful respect that reminded me of what dignity looked like when it’s dressed in a suit of power. It wasn’t love, not in the sense I’d imagined, but it was something perhaps more dangerous. Guinevere Knox, 32