Chapter 3 - The Backlash
The peace lasted exactly twelve hours.
By Tuesday afternoon, the counter-offensive began. Sasha hadn't just gotten angry; she had gotten strategic. A local lifestyle blog published an exclusive interview with her, titled: “The Real Story Behind the Wedding Disaster: How an Envious Cousin and a Bitter Ex Ruined My Dream Day.”
In the article, Sasha painted herself as the ultimate victim. She claimed that she and Kian had broken up with me amicably months before, and that Renee had hired me out of a malicious, lifelong jealousy to stage a scene at her wedding. She even leaked a copy of a bank transfer—the initial $500 deposit Renee had sent to my account, labeled simply: “Services rendered.”
The internet, being the fickle beast it is, began to turn.
“Wait, so the guy was paid to be there? That’s psycho behavior,” one top comment read. “The cousin is obsessed with her. Look at the bank transfer. Total setup,” wrote another.
My phone at work began ringing off the hook with internal extensions. Even my teammates, who had been supportive, were giving me sideways glances.
At 2:00 PM, my desk phone rang. It was an external number. I answered it automatically.
“Alan.”
It was Kian. His voice sounded smug, dripping with the familiar condescension I had tolerated for years when we were friends.
“What do you want, Kian?” I whispered, keeping my eyes fixed on my monitor so my coworkers wouldn't notice my anger.
“I want you to issue a public apology,” Kian said. “Sasha is crying every day. Her parents are threatening to sue Renee for the cost of the venue and emotional distress. If you sign a statement admitting that Renee manipulated you into doing that toast, we’ll leave you out of the lawsuit. You can keep your little tech job.”
My blood boiled. The audacity of this guy, who had systematically dismantled my trust, acting like a mob boss.
“You slept with my girlfriend, Kian,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “You stood in my apartment, drank my beer, and then went to her bed. And now you’re talking to me about legal statements?”
“That was entirely between me and Sasha, Alan! It had nothing to do with Renee’s psycho revenge plot. You’re being used. Again. Except this time, you’re getting paid like a cheap escort.”
I gripped the phone so hard the plastic creaked. “We’re done talking.”
I slammed the receiver down. My hands were shaking. I needed to see Renee, but HR’s probation rules were clear: No interaction during office hours.
Instead, I opened a private Git repository—a hidden sandbox I used for testing code—and created a text file named chat.txt. I committed a single line of code: “They’re trying to spin the narrative. Meet me at the diner down the street at 5:01 PM. Don't let anyone see you leave.”
A minute later, a push notification flashed on my screen. Renee had merged a pull request. Her comment on the file read: “I’ll be there. Bring armor.”
When the clock struck 5:00, I practically bolted from my desk. The diner was a greasy, low-lit hole-in-the-wall where corporate types rarely ventured. Renee was already sitting in a back booth, staring at her phone with a look of pure cold fury.
“Have you read the comments?” she asked as I slid in across from her.
“I try not to read the digital bathroom walls,” I said. “Kian called me today. He threatened a lawsuit if I don't blame everything on you.”
Renee’s eyes flashed. “They’re desperate. Sasha’s father is a major shareholder in the marketing firm she works for, and this scandal is tanking their stock. They’re trying to legally bully us into silence.”
“Then we don’t stay silent,” I said, leaning across the table. “Sasha leaked the bank transfer. She wants to play dirty? Let’s play dirty. We have the actual contract, Renee. The one that proves we were planning to break up after the wedding. If we were trying to ruin her wedding, why would we write a contract weeks in advance detailing a quiet breakup?”
Renee paused, her marketing brain clicking into gear. “And we have the texts. The ones where I tried to confess to you because I was feeling guilty about the whole thing. The ones that prove it stopped being a game.”
She looked at me, a mixture of fear and determination in her eyes. “But Alan... if we release that, the whole world will see how pathetic I was. How I used you because I felt inferior to my cousin.”
May you like
I reached across the sticky table and took her hand, wrapping my fingers tightly around hers. “You’re not pathetic, Renee. You were hurt, and you fought back in the only way you knew how. But right now, we aren’t fighting for your family’s approval anymore. We’re fighting for our future. Let me help you.”
She looked down at our joined hands, a tear finally escaping her eye and splashing onto the laminate table. “Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s bring them down.”
