I’ve always believed that revenge is a kind of perfume. It is intoxicating, lingering, and dangerous when worn too close to the skin.

Tonight, I wear it boldly.

The moment I close the door behind me, I can already smell him in the air: Chase. His cologne, his ego, his chaos. He’ll come. He always does. The predictable ones always do.

I move around my apartment, setting the scene like I’m arranging a stage. Low lights, soft jazz humming through the speakers, a glass decanter gleaming on ...