Their Tears, My Sweet Revenge

For twenty years, I lived with the Thompson family. Their two sons, Mark and David, were my entire world. Everyone said I was the luckiest girl alive, caught between the unwavering devotion of the two most eligible bachelors in town.

But when I told them I wanted to get married, they laughed in my face, calling our two decades together "just a bit of fun."

The very next day, on my birthday, they publicly proposed to the housekeeper's daughter, Sarah.

To celebrate, they forced me to drink a glass of high-proof liquor for her, sending me to the hospital with a bleeding stomach. They called me a drama queen for ruining Sarah's special moment.

Back at the mansion, they threw my belongings in the hall, gave my job to Sarah, and then Mark slapped me hard across the face.

The two boys who once fought to defend my honor left me crying in the mud, calling me a parasite who wouldn't survive a week without them. My twenty years of love and devotion meant nothing.

Lying on the floor with a broken ankle from where David had deliberately stomped on it, I finally understood.

The next day, I posted a single photo to my social media. It was my hand, next to a man's, holding a brand new marriage certificate.

My caption was simple: "Mrs. Olivia Sullivan."

Chapter 1

My life was supposed to be a fairytale. After my family' s business collapsed, my mother' s best friend, Mrs. Thompson, took me in. I grew up in their mansion, a constant fixture between her two sons, Mark and David.

For twenty years, they were my world.

Mark, the older one, was my shadow. He' d bring me breakfast in bed, fix my car before I even knew it was broken, and scare off any boy who so much as looked at me.

David, the younger, was my sunlight. He' d make me laugh until my sides hurt, plan spontaneous trips to the beach, and fill my room with flowers for no reason at all.

Everyone said I was the luckiest girl alive, caught between the unwavering devotion of the two most eligible bachelors in town. Their blatant favoritism made me the target of endless envy. I believed it, too. I thought their affection was the most stable thing in my life.

So when I turned twenty-five, I finally gathered the courage to tell them what I wanted most. We were in the living room, a rare quiet moment.

"I' ve been thinking a lot about the future," I started, my hands clasped in my lap. "I want to get married. I want to have kids, a real family."

The silence that followed was heavy and cold.

Mark, who was reading a financial report, didn' t even look up. "I' m focused on my career right now, Olivia. I have no time for marriage."

David, scrolling on his phone, let out a short, sharp laugh.

"Seriously? I' m too young for that. I still want to have fun." He finally looked at me, a smirk on his face I' d never seen before. "Besides, it was all just a bit of fun, wasn' t it? Don' t take things so seriously."

Just a bit of fun. Twenty years.

It felt like the floor had dropped out from under me.

The very next day was my birthday party. The house was filled with people, music, and laughter, but all I felt was a hollow ache in my chest. I tried to plaster a smile on my face, but it felt brittle.

Then, Mark and David stepped into the center of the room, glasses raised. I thought, for a foolish second, they were going to toast to me.

Instead, they turned to Sarah, the housekeeper' s daughter, who was standing shyly in the corner.

"Sarah," Mark said, his voice ringing with a sincerity he had denied me just the night before. "Will you marry me?"

Before Sarah could even react, David pushed forward, a matching hopeful look on his face. "No, marry me, Sarah!"

The room erupted in shocked whispers. They proposed to her. Simultaneously. On my birthday.

Sarah blushed, looking between them with wide, innocent eyes. "I... I don' t know what to say."

"Say yes to both of us!" David shouted playfully.

The crowd laughed, caught up in the bizarre, romantic spectacle. I just stood there, frozen.

To celebrate, Mark grabbed a bottle of high-proof liquor from the bar. He poured a glass and brought it to Sarah. "A toast to you, my love."

Sarah giggled and shook her head. "Oh, I can' t drink that, it' s too strong."

David' s eyes landed on me. A cruel smile spread across his lips. "Olivia can drink it for you. She' s tough."

He strode over, snatched the glass, and shoved it into my hand. "Drink up, Olivia. A toast to the happy couple. Or, couples."

"I can' t," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "You know I have a sensitive stomach. The doctor said-"

"Don' t be a buzzkill, Olivia," Mark cut in, his tone sharp. "It' s a party. Don' t ruin it for Sarah."

Sarah looked at me, her eyes pleading. "Please, Olivia? Just one sip? For me?"

Their faces, all three of them, were expectant. It was a test. A public shaming. The pressure from the crowd was immense. My hands trembled as I lifted the glass to my lips. The cheap liquor burned its way down my throat, a trail of fire lighting up my insides.

A sharp, stabbing pain immediately seized my stomach. I doubled over, gasping. The glass shattered on the floor. I could feel something hot and wet rising in my throat.

I was rushed to the emergency room with a bleeding stomach. As the paramedics wheeled me out, I saw Mark and David standing together. They were shielding Sarah' s eyes with their hands, as if to protect her from the sight of me.

"She' s always so dramatic," I heard David mutter.

"Just trying to get attention," Mark agreed.

Lying in the sterile hospital bed, the cold autumn air seeping through the window, my phone rang. It was Mark.

"Where the hell did you go?" he yelled, his voice furious. "You just ran off and left this whole mess. You owe Sarah an apology for ruining her special moment."

David' s voice came through the phone, equally angry. "Sarah' s been crying because of you! She thinks you hate her now. Your little fake illness really stressed her out."

I looked at my pale, frail reflection in the dark screen of the phone. I saw the IV drip attached to my arm. Fake illness. I didn' t say a word. I just quietly ended the call.

Then, I dialed another number.

"Mom," I said, my voice hoarse.

"Olivia? Honey, what' s wrong? Are you okay?"

Her voice, full of genuine concern, was the only warmth I had felt all night. For twenty years, she had been working tirelessly, rebuilding our family' s business from the ashes, all for me. She was the one who had secured the connection with the powerful Sullivan family, giving me an option, a way out that I had always been too blind to see.

"Mom," I said, my decision hardening with every painful beat of my heart. "I' ve made up my mind. I' ll marry Mr. Sullivan."

There was a pause on the other end. "Are you sure, sweetheart? You don' t have to."

"I' m sure," I said. I finally understood. To the Thompson brothers, I was just a fleeting amusement. A comfortable habit they had no intention of keeping. It was time to leave.

I booked a flight, planning to leave as soon as I was discharged. But then a new post from Sarah appeared on my social media feed. It stopped me cold.

The caption read: "True love needs no words. Only useless old women have to scheme and plot to climb the ladder."

The picture was of her, lounging on my bed, in my room at the Thompson mansion. She was wearing the custom-made gown and crystal shoes Mark and David had ordered for my birthday. On her fingers, she flaunted two identical, sparkling engagement rings.

My things. My room. My dress. My life.

I blocked her number and her profile without a second thought.

Then I called my mother again.

"Mom, I' m serious. I want to have my own child. Soon."

The doctor in the ER had been blunt. The damage to my stomach lining was severe. He' d warned me that the stress and injury had weakened my body significantly. If I waited too long, I might not be able to conceive at all.

"I understand, Olivia," my mother said, her voice steady and supportive. "I respect your decision. I' ll make the arrangements with the Sullivan family."

A wave of relief washed over me. I was finally choosing myself.

My mother arranged everything. The plan was for me to spend one final week at the Thompson mansion to recover my strength and say my goodbyes. It was a courtesy, a way to close a twenty-year chapter of my life without burning the bridge with Mrs. Thompson, who had always been kind to me.

I arrived back at the sprawling estate feeling like a ghost. The place that had been my home was now just a house, full of memories that had turned sour.

I was in the garden, looking at the lily-of-the-valley patch I had painstakingly cultivated over the years. They were my favorite flowers, a small piece of beauty that was all mine.

Suddenly, a blast of cold water hit me from behind. I gasped, stumbling forward, soaked to the skin.

I turned to see Sarah standing there, holding a garden hose, a triumphant smirk on her face.

"Oops," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "My hand slipped."

She then turned the hose on my lily-of-the-valley, the powerful jet of water tearing the delicate white bells from their stems, churning the soil into a muddy mess.

"These are ugly anyway," she declared, dropping the hose. "I told Mark I want roses here. Red ones. They' re so much more romantic."

I just stood there, shivering, watching the destruction of the one thing I truly loved in that garden.

Mark and David came out onto the patio. They saw me, dripping and muddy, and the ruined flowerbed. They didn' t say a word to Sarah.

Instead, David sneered at me. "Look at you. Can' t even stand in a garden without making a mess."

Mark just shook his head in disappointment, as if I were a misbehaving child. He wrapped an arm around Sarah, pulling her close. "Don' t worry, sweetheart. We' ll get you your roses."

My stomach, still tender from the hospital, clenched in a familiar, painful knot. I remembered a time when I' d scraped my knee in this very garden, and Mark had carried me all the way inside, scolding me gently for being careless while David ran to get the first-aid kit. That care, that concern, was gone. It had been transferred, wholesale, to Sarah.

Later, I walked inside, my wet clothes clinging to my skin. I found my path to the stairs blocked.

All of my belongings-my clothes, my books, my photo albums-were piled in a messy heap in the hallway.

Mark was there, with Sarah tucked under his arm. He looked at the pile, then at me, his expression cold.

"Sarah needs more closet space," he said, his voice flat. "We' ve moved your things. You' ll be staying in the guest room at the end of the hall from now on."

"And you won' t be needing your office at the company anymore," he continued, not a flicker of remorse in his eyes. "Sarah' s going to take over your duties. Your new position is in the mailroom. You can start on Monday."

My role in the company, a position I had earned with my degree and hard work, was being handed to a housekeeper' s daughter with no experience, just because she had their affection.

My eyes scanned the pile of my life, discarded in the hallway. I saw my childhood teddy bear, a worn, one-eyed thing that David had won for me at a carnival when we were ten.

As if following my gaze, David walked over, picked up the bear, and held it up.

"What' s this old thing?" he asked, a cruel grin playing on his lips. He looked at Sarah. "Are you scared of it, sweetheart?"

Sarah let out a little shriek and hid her face in Mark' s chest. "It' s so creepy!"

With a dramatic flourish, David tore the bear' s head off. The stuffing exploded outwards like a sad, white cloud. He then ripped off its arms and legs, tossing the mangled pieces onto the pile with a laugh.

"There," he said to Sarah. "The monster is gone."

He kicked the bear' s head, sending it rolling across the polished floor until it stopped at my feet.

I looked down at the familiar, button eye staring up at me. Twenty years of memories, torn apart in seconds, just to amuse a girl they had known for a few months.

That was it. The final thread of affection I had for them snapped.

I calmly looked up from the destroyed bear. I met Mark' s cold eyes.

"That' s alright," I said, my voice steady and devoid of emotion. "I won' t be needing the guest room. Or the job in the mailroom."

I bent down, picked up a single, clean shirt from the pile, and held it.

"I' ll be moving out. And I' m resigning from the company, effective immediately."

Mark scoffed, a look of utter disbelief on his face. "Moving out? Where are you going to go? Don' t be ridiculous, Olivia. You' re a parasite. You' ve lived off our family' s charity your whole life. You wouldn' t survive a week without us."

I didn' t argue. I didn' t defend myself. I just walked past him, heading for the door.

As I passed him, I paused.

"There won' t be a next time," I said quietly, not to him, but to myself.

I walked out of the house, leaving the entire pile of my past life lying in the hallway. I didn' t look back.

Mark' s voice followed me out the door, sharp and laced with a threat.

"You' ll be back, Olivia! You always come back! Just remember, don' t you ever, ever bother Sarah again!"

I didn' t turn around. His words felt distant, like they were meant for someone else. The Olivia he was talking to, the girl who would have been crushed by his disapproval, was gone. She had died in the hospital room, or maybe when David tore the head off her teddy bear.

I felt a strange sense of calm settle over me. It wasn't happiness, not yet. It was the quiet peace of a decision finally made. The endless, exhausting effort of trying to earn their love was over.

I kept walking down the long, winding driveway. I was free.

I pulled out my phone and sent a simple text to the HR department.

I resign my position, effective immediately.

Mark' s words about me being a parasite echoed in my head. He was wrong. I had worked hard at the company, pulling long hours, contributing to major projects. My salary was fair, but I had never been a financial drain. They had provided a home, yes, but I had provided my loyalty, my effort, and my entire heart. It was a trade I had made willingly, foolishly.

I walked until I reached the main gate. I didn't have a car, Mark had always insisted on driving me. I didn't have a destination, I had always assumed my home was with them.

I just stood there for a moment, breathing in the cool air, and then I started walking again.

Later that evening, from the sterile comfort of a hotel room my mother had booked for me, I logged onto my laptop. I went through my photos, deleting every picture of me with Mark or David. The smiling faces, the holiday trips, the birthday parties. All of it, gone in a few clicks.

Then I saw a photo of a dress I had loved, a beautiful blue silk gown they had given me for my twenty-first birthday. It was hanging in the closet back at the mansion. Sarah was probably wearing it right now. I thought about the soiled clothes I' d left behind, the defaced photos, the torn bear.

"I' ll pay it all back," I whispered to the empty room. Not the money, but the pain. The humiliation.

My phone buzzed. It was a message from Mark. It wasn' t an apology. It was a picture.

He and Sarah were standing in the stargazing dome at the far end of the property.

My heart gave a painful throb.

Mark had built that dome for me on my sixteenth birthday. We had spent countless nights there, just the two of us, looking at the constellations. He taught me their names, their stories. He had pointed to a distant star and told me it was ours.

"No matter what happens, Olivia," he had said, his voice soft in the darkness, "that star will always be there. Just like I' ll always be here for you. It' s our secret spot. Forever."

Now, in the photo, he was holding Sarah in his arms, in our spot. They were kissing. His message was a single, cruel line.

She loves the stars, too.

That was the moment I knew, with absolute certainty, that nothing was sacred. Nothing had ever been truly mine. Everything I thought was a promise was just a placeholder. Every special memory was just a template, ready to be reused for the next person who caught their fancy.

I looked at the picture of them in my dome, under my star, and I didn't feel rage anymore. I felt empty. The last flicker of hope, the tiny, stupid part of me that thought maybe this was all a terrible misunderstanding, was finally extinguished.

I accepted it. I accepted that the twenty years of my life I had dedicated to them meant nothing. It was a sunk cost. It was time to cut my losses and walk away.

I closed the laptop. The past was a closed book.

It was time to start a new one.