After clearing those greedy parasites—Eleanor and Mike—from my apartment, the place finally regained its deserved peace.

I walked barefoot across the floor, emptiness spreading from my soles to my heart. But this wasn't the hollow emptiness of loss—this was purposeful calm with laser focus. Liam's family were merely the appetizer, stupid greedy hyenas. The truly venomous snake still lurked in the shadows, tongue flicking.


Chloe.

My best friend. My closest confidante. The one who plunged the knife deepest into my back.

For someone like Chloe—an influencer whose public image was her lifeblood—reputation damage would hurt far more than bankruptcy. Money could be earned again, but once her carefully crafted persona collapsed, everything would crumble to dust.


My battlefield wouldn't be the courtroom, but the internet.

***


I sat before my computer, its cold light reflecting off my expressionless face.

I registered a new anonymous blog and social media accounts under a name I'd chosen carefully—"The Serpent's Diary."

This diary would tell a fascinating story.

In detached third-person, I began chronicling a betrayal story about "my wealthy, beautiful friend and her bestie." It opened with a woman drowning in grief after losing her fiancé, while her gorgeous, seemingly devoted best friend remained constantly by her side—a perfect angel.

I named no names but painted every detail with perfect accuracy: the lavish engagement party, the Van Cleef & Arpels necklace my protagonist gave her friend, their ski trip to Aspen, even inside jokes only they would recognize.

My words were pebbles dropped into still water, creating ripples throughout our Upper East Side social circle. Mutual friends reacted first, privately discussing how the "wealthy, beautiful friend" seemed suspiciously like me.

And the "angelic bestie" was, naturally, Chloe.

Public opinion fermented quietly like rising dough, waiting for the perfect moment to be punched down. I just needed to wait for the right timing.

***

The opportunity arrived sooner than expected.

Three days after I posted my story, Chloe—likely feeling public sentiment was in her favor—decided to reinforce her "world's best friend" image.

She posted a photo on her Instagram—her silhouette lighting candles in a church—with the caption: "It's been nearly a week now. I pray my poor Ava finds her way through this darkness soon. Thinking of you daily, darling. @Ava"

The post immediately flooded with thousands of sympathetic, gushing comments:

"Chloe, you're literally an angel!"
"Ava is so lucky to have a friend like you!"
"My heart breaks for Ava—and for you too, Chloe. You must be suffering so much."

Reading these nauseating comments, a cold smile curled at my lips.

Perfect timing.

I switched to "The Serpent's Diary" account and dropped a simple comment into that praise-filled section: "Prayer works miracles—it can reach all the way from New York to the Chanel boutique in Nassau, Bahamas."

Then I attached a screenshot.

A crystal-clear credit card statement with all identifying marks carefully removed. Location: Nassau, Bahamas, Chanel Boutique. Amount: $32,700. Date: The afternoon of the third day after Liam's "death."

And that card was my birthday gift to Chloe—a supplementary card linked to my primary account.

***

The internet exploded.

That statement screenshot was a precision bomb, obliterating Chloe's carefully constructed "saint-like bestie" persona in seconds.

First came stunned silence, then the frantic questions:

"This can't be real! Chloe, explain yourself!"
"Your best friend's fiancé JUST died and you're in the Bahamas buying handbags? For THIRTY THOUSAND DOLLARS?"
"I just googled this—that store is inside the Atlantis Resort! You're on VACATION?!"
"@Chloe Say something! If your card was stolen, file a police report!"

All the previous praise transformed into vicious backlash. Her followers felt betrayed, and their rage crashed down on her like a tsunami.

She didn't respond—likely panicking, with no idea how to counter this devastating revelation.

I admired the chaos I'd orchestrated, like watching a spectacular fireworks show of my own design.

Next, I opened my email and found that all-too-familiar address.

I attached a single photo without any message. One of Ray's crystal-clear surveillance shots—Chloe in her tiny bikini wrapped around Liam like a serpent, locked in a passionate kiss by the infinity pool, completely oblivious to the world around them.

For the subject line, I wrote just one sentence:

"The show has just begun."

Before clicking send, I paused, then added one line to the body:

"Guess what's next?"