I didn’t answer Brendan’s message immediately.
Instead, I spent the night going through three years of texts, emails, photos, receipts, and voice messages.
By sunrise, I had stopped seeing bad luck.
I saw evidence.
The next afternoon, I went to Brendan’s apartment as if nothing had happened.
He smiled when he opened the door.
“Ready for number ninety-seven?”
My stomach turned, but I pretended not to understand.
While Brendan showered, his tablet lit up on the kitchen counter.
A notification appeared from a group chat:
99 — Scarlett: Don’t mess up the last three.
My hands shook as I opened it.
There it was.
Three years of my life organized like a game.
A numbered list.
Photos.
Videos.
Screenshots.
Comments about how long I cried, how frightened I became, how much money I spent.
Number 41 was the fake plagiarism accusation.
Number 63 was Brendan’s imaginary surgery.
Number 96 was the blood donation.
Beside it, Scarlett had written:
She still believes everything he tells her.
And below that were the final three plans.
Number 97: make me believe Brendan had lost money belonging to his employer and convince me to replace it.
Number 98: plant an expensive bracelet in my bag at a party and accuse me of stealing it.
Number 99: publicly reveal the entire “revenge project,” dump me in front of everyone, and reunite Brendan with Scarlett.
I photographed everything.
Then I found something even more important.
Payment records.
Scarlett had been paying several people to participate.
Including someone connected to the private clinic.
That was no longer a cruel joke between friends.
It involved false medical information and a blood draw performed under a lie.
I sent every file to myself.
Then I put the tablet back exactly where I found it.
When Brendan returned, he smiled.
“So, can I count on you tomorrow?”
I looked at him.
“Absolutely.”
The next morning, I didn’t go to meet him.
I went to an attorney.
Then I contacted the clinic’s compliance office and provided the messages, appointment details, and photographs.
The clinic opened an internal investigation immediately.
I also sent the university evidence showing that the plagiarism complaint against me had been deliberately fabricated.
They confirmed weeks later that the accusation had originated from false information submitted by someone in Brendan’s circle.
Scarlett’s carefully planned game started collapsing.
Several friends suddenly claimed they “didn’t know how serious it had become.”
Brendan called me dozens of times.
Finally I answered once.
“How long have you known?” he demanded.
“Since number ninety-six.”
Silence.
Then he said:
“It was supposed to be harmless.”
I looked at the bruise still fading from my arm.
“No, Brendan. It was supposed to hurt me. That was literally the point.”
I ended the call.
A week later, I moved to Tucson with my parents.
The clinic investigation continued, and the people involved faced professional consequences. The university corrected my record regarding the false complaint.
I never learned whether Scarlett and Brendan officially got back together.
Eventually, I stopped caring.
Months later, my mother asked if I regretted losing three years.
I thought about it.
“No,” I said. “I regret trusting the wrong person for three years. That’s different.”
Revenge number ninety-seven never happened.
Neither did ninety-eight or ninety-nine.
Because after ninety-six attempts to make me feel foolish, they finally made one mistake.
They let me discover the list.
