The day before it all happened, my life had collapsed in the most humiliating way possible. I walked into my own kitchen, humming a tune and thinking about what to cook for dinner, only to find my boyfriend, John, pressed up against another woman, her lipstick smeared, his shirt halfway unbuttoned, their laughter echoing like knives in my ears.
I froze in the doorway, unable to move. “John?” My voice cracked.
He barely flinched. He had the nerve to glance over his shoulder at me, annoyed, as though I were the one intruding. “Guess you should find out now,” he muttered.
The other woman smirked, twirling a strand of hair. “Oh, hi,” she said casually, as if she belonged there.
My stomach churned. Everything I thought I knew about him, about us, crumbled right then. I’d been paying half the rent, cleaning the place, supporting him through his rough patches. And this was how he repaid me?
I don’t remember much of what I said afterward. I just know I packed what little I could carry and walked out. He didn’t stop me. He didn’t even look guilty.
That night, I slept on my cousin’s couch. My head throbbed, my chest ached, and I kept replaying the scene over and over. But I told myself one thing: tomorrow was my first day at my new job, and no matter how broken I felt, I couldn’t mess it up.
I got up early, tried to make myself look halfway presentable, and headed to the restaurant. It was a cozy, upscale place downtown, the kind of spot where people booked tables weeks in advance. The manager, Mr. Harris, had taken a chance on me even though my experience was limited, and I was determined not to let him down.
The morning went well enough. I shadowed another server, learned the system, carried trays, and smiled through the ache in my chest. For a few hours, I almost forgot about John.
Almost.
But just after noon, the door swung open, and in he walked.
John. With her.
I froze mid-step, the tray in my hands trembling. For a split second, I thought maybe I was imagining it. But no, there he was, strutting into the dining room like he owned the place. His arm was slung around her shoulders, and she was wearing a dress so tight it looked painted on.
And of all the empty tables, they chose mine.
My throat tightened as I approached, forcing out the most professional voice I could muster. “Welcome. Table for two?”
John leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Well, well. Look who’s here. Haven’t you done enough damage yesterday? WHY ARE YOU HERE!?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “This is my job, John. What are you doing here?”
He spread his arms like a king on his throne. “Well, you can’t serve me at home anymore, so you’ll serve me here.”
His new girl—Tina, I think her name was—snapped her fingers at me. “Hurry up and get me a menu. Or you’ll lose more than just your house—you’ll lose this job too.”
I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood. I couldn’t afford to lose this job. Rent, bills, food—they all depended on me keeping it. So I forced a smile, handed them menus, and walked away, though my hands were shaking.
That was just the beginning.
They ordered like royalty and treated me like dirt. John dropped his fork on the floor, deliberately, and waited until I bent down to pick it up so he could make some crude comment under his breath. Tina “accidentally” spilled her soup all over my apron, giggling while John roared with laughter. Every time I returned to their table, they found a new way to humiliate me.
At one point, I excused myself and ducked behind the bar, tears stinging my eyes. I pressed my fists against my chest, trying to steady my breathing. The h.u.m.1.l.i.a.t.i.o.n was unbearable.
That’s when Chef Marco appeared.
He was a gruff, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of presence that made people straighten up when he entered the room. He noticed me crouched behind the counter, my face red and damp.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice softer than I expected.
I shook my head, embarrassed. “Just… a difficult table.”
He glanced over the bar, spotted John and Tina laughing, and his jaw tightened. Then he crouched down so we were eye level.
“Listen,” he whispered. “You don’t deserve that. And I’ve got an idea.”
I blinked. “An idea?”
He smirked, the corner of his mouth curling like he’d been waiting for a moment like this. “Trust me.”
I wiped my eyes, straightened my apron, and nodded.
When I returned to their table, I was calmer. Almost too calm. They noticed.
“Finally!” Tina snapped. “We’ve been waiting forever. I hope the food isn’t as slow as you.”
I forced a smile. “Oh, don’t worry. The chef is preparing something special just for you.”
They exchanged smug looks, clearly pleased with themselves.
Ten minutes later, I carried out two steaming plates, setting them down with exaggerated care.
“Here we are,” I said sweetly. “Our chef’s compliments.”
John barely waited before digging in. He shoveled a forkful into his mouth, chewed once, then froze. His face twisted.
Tina took a bite and gagged. “What is this?” she screeched.
Marco had outdone himself. He’d prepared two dishes that looked exquisite but were laced with every spicy pepper he could find in the kitchen. Ghost pepper, habanero, jalapeño—you name it. It was a firestorm on a plate.
John coughed violently, reaching for his water glass, but I had “accidentally” forgotten to refill it. His face turned red, sweat beading on his forehead. Tina fanned her mouth with both hands, her mascara already smudging.
“Oh dear,” I said innocently, tilting my head. “Too spicy? I thought you both liked things… hot.”
John slammed his hand on the table, his voice hoarse. “Get us something else! Now!”
I leaned closer, lowering my voice so only they could hear. “No problem. But you’ll have to pay for this first. House rules.”
They sputtered, furious, but they couldn’t argue without drawing more attention to themselves. Other diners were already staring, whispering.
Finally, John dug into his wallet, slapped a wad of cash on the table, and stormed out, dragging Tina behind him. She was still shrieking, her tongue sticking out as though it were on fire.
The moment they left, the restaurant erupted in laughter. A few patrons even clapped.
I stood there, trembling but victorious.
Later, Marco patted my shoulder. “Told you I had an idea.”
I grinned for the first time that day. “Thank you.”
Walking home that evening, I realized something: John had tried to break me, but instead, he’d handed me the chance to rise.
And I had taken it.
That was the day I stopped crying over him. That was the day I started laughing again.
And I swear, it was the best revenge I could’ve asked for.
