Revenge on My Backstabbing Bestie

I stood frozen as my best friend shattered her phone against the wall in a fit of hysterics. Tears streaked down my face—some hers, some mine—but my expression stayed empty. Hollow.

I'd seen this before. Lived it already.

In what felt like another lifetime, she'd stood in front of me sobbing just like this—bruised, broken, begging me to let her stay.

My heart had softened then. I said yes.

I didn't know I was letting a wolf through the door.

Two weeks later, she couldn't stop throwing up.

The pregnancy test screamed positive.

Before I could even process it, her husband stormed into my home with a gang of thugs. A steel pipe came down hard—shattering my husband's leg.

In court, she cried. Trembled. Put on the performance of her life.

She accused my husband of assaulting her while she was under our roof.

And me? I was the accomplice—hiding the truth, helping her cover it up with an abortion.

The nail in our coffin was the amniocentesis report she presented.

DNA proof the baby was my husband's.

We were speechless. Destroyed.

The internet erupted. Our lives were torn apart—people sent funeral wreaths to our doorstep.

The court gave us ten years. Ten million in emotional damages.

My parents died in a car accident while selling their home to pay the fines.

My husband and I took our own lives in prison.

She took the money, terminated the pregnancy, and jet-setted around the world with the same man who'd beaten her black and blue.

When I opened my eyes again—

I was back.

Right at the moment she knocked on my door.

Through the peephole, I saw her—face puffy, eyes swimming with tears.

"Please… open the door. He's going to kill me…"

Slowly, I turned the knob.

Before she could rush in, I slipped an unopened box of condoms into her bag.

The exact brand her husband always used.

My head throbbed.

I jerked awake.

The chandelier… the curtains… our bedroom.

Not a cold prison cell. Not some filthy back alley.

Home.

I was really back.

"Sophia… you're too good to me. If you hadn't taken me in, Jack would've killed me…"

That voice. That crying.

I turned.

Fiona Lowell stood in the middle of my living room—sobbing like her world was ending.

This was it.

The day I'd let her in.

The day everything started.

"Sophia, your place is huge… must be what, five hundred square meters? It's gotta be worth a fortune."

She didn't even wait for an answer—just wandered further in, eyes hungry, scanning every corner like she was already redecorating.

Then the lock turned.

Ethan walked in.

Fiona's whole demeanor shifted.

She fluffed her hair, whipped out a compact, dabbed her face, and glided toward him.

"You must be Ethan? We met at the wedding—you're even more handsome up close."

Her voice went sugary. She stepped a little too close.

Ethan's brow furrowed. He took a half-step back.

"Thanks."

I knew that tone. He came from old money, ran his own company—he'd seen women like Fiona his whole life. She wasn't fooling anyone.

In my past life, he warned me. Said she was trouble.

But I didn't listen.

Now, seeing his coldness, Fiona switched tactics.

Tears welled up again.