I paid a visit to a pet shop, arranged a little “special delivery,” and ensured that for the next several weeks, Layla would receive surprise packages containing everything from chirping crickets to stink bombs—all labeled anonymously. She never traced it back to me, but I watched with quiet satisfaction as her smug attitude faded.
Eventually, Marcus came around, and things have cooled down. I don’t regret what I did. Sometimes, when words fail, a little poetic justice is the only way to restore balance—and dignity.
