“Still the same little loser,” she murmured. “It’s almost cute.”
I stiffened, gripping my drink a little tighter. I wasn’t the girl who shrank under her words anymore.
She hadn’t changed. But I had. And this time, she wasn’t going to get away with it.
I lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, my mind replaying every cruel thing Nancy had ever done. Every fake smile. Every whispered insult. Every time she had made me feel small. I thought about my brother, laughing along with her, completely unaware of the years of torment she had put me through.
And then, like a bolt of lightning, I remembered something.
Freshman year of high school. Biology class. Our teacher had brought in live butterflies for a lesson on metamorphosis. Most of us had been fascinated, watching the delicate creatures flutter inside their enclosure. But Nancy? She had screamed so loudly the principal came running.
At first, we all thought she was joking. But then she bolted from the room, shaking, her face ghostly pale.
That was the day we all learned Nancy had a deep, irrational fear of butterflies. And some fears don’t fade with age.
By morning, I had a perfect plan.
I did my research. My state allowed the release of native butterflies, and there were companies that specialized in providing them for special occasions like weddings, birthdays, and memorials.
I found one that delivered live butterflies in a beautifully wrapped gift box, meant to create a magical moment when opened. The butterflies would take flight in a gentle, breathtaking display.
I placed my order. Two hundred live butterflies, set to arrive at Nancy and my brother’s home the night they returned from their wedding.
To make sure it played out exactly how I wanted, I paid extra for the delivery person to insist the box be opened indoors, claiming the butterflies were delicate and needed protection from the wind.
And, just for good measure, I arranged for them to film the whole thing.
The wedding was exactly what I expected — all about Nancy. She glowed under the attention, parading through the venue in a designer gown, making sure every eye stayed on her. She played the perfect bride, the perfect hostess, the perfect everything.
“You made it!” she gushed, all smiles and fake warmth. “I was so worried you’d back out at the last minute.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I replied smoothly, sipping my champagne.
Throughout the night, she kept up the act. A little comment here, a backhanded compliment there. Then, near the end of the night, she struck.
“So,” she said loudly, gathering attention, “I noticed there’s no gift from you! I know you wouldn’t forget such an important day.”
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