“The Last Supper”

Tyler was the love of my life—or so I thought. When he proposed, I felt like the luckiest woman in the world. We were deep into wedding planning when he finally decided it was time for me to meet his mom, Patricia. He’d always been vague about her—”complicated,” he’d say. But when we sat down for dinner at her pristine, overdecorated home, she was shockingly warm. Complimented my dress, my job, my laugh.

For a moment, I thought, Hey, maybe I’ll actually have a nice mother-in-law.

That fantasy lasted about 30 minutes.

After dinner, Patricia asked Tyler to help her with “something quick in the bedroom.” I figured she needed him to move something heavy or fix a drawer. I started clearing the dishes, humming to myself.

Ten minutes passed.

Then Tyler walked out.

His face was pale. Like all the blood had been drained from it. I immediately asked, “Everything okay?”

He couldn’t even look at me. Then he muttered, “Charlotte… my mom thinks this engagement is a mistake.”

I blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

His voice got firmer. “She said I need someone older. More successful. Someone who can provide me stability. She said you’re pretty, but you’re not… built for the future. And honestly… I’ve been thinking about that too. I think we should call off the engagement.”

I just stood there, my heart trying to crawl out of my chest. The man I loved just repeated his mother’s poison back to me like it was scripture.

But instead of crying or yelling, I smiled. A soft, eerily calm smile.

“That’s fine,” I said. “But can we have one last dinner together? At my place. A proper goodbye. Just us. No drama. Just… closure.”

He hesitated, unsure. But eventually, he nodded.

“Yeah. Closure would be nice.”

The following Friday, he showed up.
Wearing the watch I bought him. Smug and cocky like he thought I was going to beg for him back.

I welcomed him in. Candlelit dinner. Steak, his favorite. Red wine. Cozy music.

He ate. Drank. Relaxed.

I didn’t.

I waited.

Then, halfway through dessert, I said, “Tyler, you said I’m not built for a future. But I’m going to show you exactly what I am built for.”

His smile faltered. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I reached into the drawer next to me and pulled out an envelope. I slid it across the table.

He opened it slowly.

Inside were photos. Screenshots. Printouts. Texts. From a month ago. Two months ago. Five months ago.

Tyler and a woman named Alina. Romantic dinners. Flirty texts. “Can’t wait till this wedding nonsense is over.” “She’s just a placeholder.”

He went pale—again.

“Wha—how did you—”

I cut him off.

“You forgot I work in digital marketing. You never deleted your iCloud sync on your old iPad. The one you gave me to use for my job applications. Rookie mistake.”

He stood up, panicking. “Charlotte, wait. I can explain—”

I kept going. “No need. You don’t have to. The screenshots have already been emailed to your precious Patricia. Along with Alina’s address. And… I CC’d your boss. You know, the one who thought you were such a stand-up guy.”

He stammered, his hands shaking. “You’re blowing this way out of proportion!”

I stood too, walked toward the door, and opened it.

“Dinner’s over, Tyler. Consider this the closure you wanted. And take that wineglass with you—it’s the last thing you’ll ever get from me.”

As the door slammed behind him, I finally let the tears fall. Not because I missed him—but because I had almost married him.

But then I poured myself a fresh glass of wine, sat down, and smiled.

I may not be “built for the future” in Patricia’s eyes, but I’ll tell you this—

I am definitely built for revenge.