Revenge on Cheating Husband: I Sent Him to Siberia Instead of Maldives…
I surprised my husband and his parents with a luxury Maldives vacation. On the way to the airport, he casually said, “We’re taking my new girlfriend instead. She needs a break from her deadend job.” His mother smirked as they left me standing there.
Little did they know, I’d secretly rebooked their dream getaway to a landfill retreat in Siberia. The look on their faces when they landed, priceless. “We’re taking my new girlfriend instead. She needs a break from her dead-end job. The words hung in the air of our SUV like poison gas. I stared at Connor, my husband of 8 years, certain I’d misheard him.
The airport loomed ahead, its departure sign glowing in the morning light. A beacon of the escape I’d spent months planning. A vacation that no longer included me. “You can’t be serious,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. But the look on his face said everything. That half smirk I once found charming now twisted into something cruel and unfamiliar.
Delilah, my mother-in-law, adjusted her designer sunglasses in the passenger seat. Cassidy, dear, surely you saw this coming. Connor needs someone who matches his ambitions. That smirk, that damn self-satisfied smirk as they pulled away, leaving me standing on the curb with my carefully packed suitcase. The same suitcase that contained the surprise itinerary for our Maldives getaway.
the one I’d been planning for 18 months. What they didn’t know was that I’d already changed those plans. I used to measure my days by how many times Delilah would purse her lips at my efforts. Thanksgiving dinner? The turkey was a touch dry, dear. Christmas decorations. A bit tacky for the neighborhood, don’t you think? My promotion at work. Well, it’s not exactly corporate leadership, but it’s nice you’re trying.
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For 8 years, I twisted myself into impossible shapes trying to fit the mold of Connors perfect wife. I learned to make his mother’s signature meatloaf. Even though I was vegetarian, I highlighted my naturally dark hair to achieve what Delilah called a more polished blonde because Connor mentioned once, just once, that he liked blondes. “You’ve got such potential, Cassidy,” Delilah would say, rearranging my living room furniture while I was at work.
“Conor just needs a partner who can keep up with his trajectory.” “The trajectory? Always the trajectory.” Connors father had been some mid-level executive who died when Connor was in college, but Delilah spoke about him like he’d been the CEO. Everything was about appearances and climbing higher.
I’d been saving for the Maldives trip since our fifth anniversary. Every extra shift at the marketing agency, every freelance project, every tax return, all squirreled away in an account Connor knew nothing about. Not because I was hiding it, but because money only interested him when it came from his family. The overwater bungalows have glass floors. I’d whispered to myself late at night, scrolling through resort photos while Connor worked late.
You can see tropical fish swimming right beneath you. I’d imagined his face lighting up with surprise. The trip representing everything we’d lost. Adventure, intimacy, wonder. The travel agent had warned me about the cost. This is our premium package, she’d explained, eyeing my modest outfit with barely concealed skepticism.
I’d pushed my credit card across her desk with quiet determination. It’s an investment in our marriage, I told her, refusing to acknowledge the flutter of anxiety about the debt I was acrewing. 3 years to pay off minimum worth it to see genuine appreciation in Connors eyes again. There had been signs, of course.
The late nights that smelled like unfamiliar perfume, the sudden password on his phone, the way he stopped reaching for me in bed. He’s just stressed about the promotion. I told my sister during our monthly phone call. Once he makes partner, things will calm down. Cass, she’d said, her voice gentle but firm. You’ve been saying that for 3 years now. I’d hung up annoyed.
She didn’t understand the pressure Connor was under the expectations from his mother, from the partners at his law firm, from himself. Or maybe I was the one who didn’t understand that I’d become background noise in my own marriage. Two months before the trip, I found a long blonde hair on his jacket. Not mine.
My highlights had grown out. Another beauty maintenance ritual I’d let slide as our bank account dwindled from my secret vacation fund. Working with the new parallegal on the Jefferson case, he’d explained without looking up from his laptop. She’s ambitious. Reminds me of myself, actually. I’d nodded and swallowed the question burning in my throat.
Instead, I’d gone back to researching snorkeling excursions and couples massages. The special dinner I’d arranged on a private beach under the stars. The photographer I’d hired to capture what I hoped would be Connors genuine smile, something I hadn’t seen directed at me in months. The morning of our departure, I woke at 5:00 a.m. too excited to sleep.
I prepared Connors favorite breakfast eggs Benedict with smoked salmon and fresh dill and set the table with the expensive dinner wear Delilah had given us for our wedding. For special occasions, she’d emphasized as if I might use them for ordinary Tuesday dinners. I wore the blue sundress Connor had once said, brought out my eyes years ago on our honeymoon.
My hair was freshly colored, my nails done in a subtle French manicure. Perfect wife, perfect surprise, perfect opportunity to recapture what we’d lost. The doorbell rang as I was arranging strawberries into a heart-shaped at top Belgian waffles. Connors favorite childhood breakfast, according to Delilah. Coming, I called, smoothing my dress and checking my reflection in the hallway mirror.
This was it, the moment everything would change. I opened the door to find Delilah wrapped in a camel hair coat despite the June heat. Her Louis Vuitton luggage stacked neatly beside her. “Cassidy,” she said, air kissing my cheek. “Connor said you’d be ready by now. The car service is waiting.” I blinked in confusion. “Car service? I thought we were driving to the airport.
” Delilah sighed, the familiar sound of disappointment I’d grown to dread. Connor arranged everything. He didn’t tell you. Typical men never communicate the details. She brushed past me into the house. Is that breakfast? We don’t have time. The flight’s at 10:00. Flight. But our flight isn’t until I stopped, stomach dropping. Our flight. The tickets in my name and Connors. The confirmation emails only I had seen.
Connor appeared at the top of the stairs, wheeling his suitcase. Morning, he said, not quite meeting my eyes. You ready? Mom’s driver is outside. That’s when I noticed his suitcase wasn’t the one I’d helped him pack the night before. Where’s the blue Samsonite? I asked voice suddenly hollow. Connor shrugged. This one’s bigger, more suitable for a long trip.
A long trip. The exact length of the Maldives vacation I’d planned. Two weeks of paradise I’d been imagining for 18 months. Let’s go, Delilah said, checking her watch. We’re meeting her at the terminal. Her. Not it. Her. And still I followed them out to the waiting town car. My own hastily grabbed suitcase rolling behind me like a faithful pet.
Still believing there must be some explanation, some misunderstanding. It wasn’t until we were halfway to O’Hare that Connor finally said those words, casual, dismissive, final, that shattered the facade I’d spent 8 years perfecting. We’re taking my new girlfriend instead. She needs a break from her dead-end job.
I felt the air leave my lungs as though I’d been punched. Time seemed to slow, the traffic outside the window blurring as my mind struggled to process his words. “You’re what?” I finally managed, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. Connor glanced at me in the rearview mirror, annoyed as if I were a child interrupting an important business call.
Tessa, my girlfriend, you’ve met her at the firm holiday party. blonde legs for days. She was working the coat check. The coat check girl. I remembered her impossibly tall with a laugh that carried across the crowded ballroom. I’d complimented her earrings, even tipped her generously, all while she was sleeping with my husband. Connor, I don’t understand. I planned this trip for us. The Maldes.
The Maldes. Delila’s perfectly plucked eyebrows shot up as she turned to face me. Oh, Cassidy, how quaint. We’re going to St. Barts. Connors firm has connections with a private resort there. Much more appropriate for someone of Connors position. Appropriate that word again. The measuring stick I never quite reached. When, I whispered, my hands clenching around the leather seat.
When did this start? Connor sighed dramatically, checking his watch. Does it matter? Look, it wasn’t planned. These things happen. People grow apart. grow apart. Connor, I’ve been planning this trip for over a year. I maxed out my credit card. I took on extra projects. And that’s exactly the problem, he interrupted, turning onto the airport access road. Always hustling for those little marketing projects.
No vision, Cass. Meanwhile, Tessa is already interviewing at top law schools. She understands ambition. Delilah nodded approvingly. She comes from Goodstock. Her father plays golf with the governor. I felt something hot and dangerous building in my chest.
So, you’ve been cheating on me for how long? The whole time I’ve been saving for this surprise. Connor had the audacity to look offended. It’s not cheating when a relationship has run its course. You and I both know this marriage hasn’t been working. I was just waiting for the right time. The right time? My voice cracked. And that would be after I spent thousands on a vacation I can’t get refunded. Don’t be dramatic. Delilah cut in.
Connor will handle any financial loose ends. He always does. She checked her reflection in the visor mirror, adding, “Though maybe if you’d focused more on your career like I suggested instead of playing housewife, you wouldn’t be so concerned about money. The casual cruelty took my breath away.
8 years of trying to please this woman, and she could dismiss me so easily.” “There she is,” Connor said suddenly, his voice softening as he pointed toward the terminal entrance. I followed his gaze and saw her Tessa standing under the departure sign, tall blonde, perfect, dressed in a white linen outfit that screamed tropical getaway more effectively than a billboard. She waved, her smile bright enough to light up the entire dropoff lane.
Connor pulled over and the car had barely stopped before Delila was out the door, embracing Tessa like a longlost daughter. Darling, you look absolutely resort ready. I heard her coup. the same woman who’d criticized my choice of swimwear just last summer as trying too hard for someone your age.
I sat frozen in the back seat watching this tableau unfold as though I were watching a movie about someone else’s life. Connor popped the trunk and started unloading the luggage. His and his mother’s, not mine. Finally, he came around to my door and opened it. For one absurd moment, I thought he might apologize, might say this was all an elaborate, cruel joke. Instead, he leaned in and spoke quietly.
I’ll have my lawyer contact you about the divorce papers. You can stay in the house until the lease is up next month. He straightened, adding almost as an afterthought. You should probably cancel whatever budget vacation you booked. The refund might cover next month’s rent. I stepped out of the car on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else.
Around us, families embraced. Couples checked tickets. Life continued in its normal rhythms while mine collapsed. Connor, I said, the word catching in my throat. You can’t just Oh, he absolutely can, Delilah interrupted suddenly beside me. And frankly, you’re making a scene. Dignity, Cassidy. At least try to maintain that. She patted my arm with cold fingers.
You’ll find someone more suitable, someone who doesn’t expect so much. I watched as Connor walked over to Tessa, sliding his arm around her waist with casual intimacy. She giggled that same musical laugh from the holiday party and kissed his cheek. He never once looked back at me. The driver placed my suitcase on the curb beside me and returned to the car. Delila gave me one last pitying glance.
The car will take you home. We’ve already paid her final act of charity. As they walked away, laughing, luggage rolling smoothly behind them, I stood paralyzed. Travelers streamed around me like water around a rock. Some giving me curious glances.
Others too focused on their own journeys to notice the woman having her life shattered on the sidewalk outside Terminal 3. I don’t know how long I stood there watching the automatic doors where they disappeared. Long enough for the morning sun to move higher, casting shorter shadows. Long enough for the tears to dry on my cheeks without me realizing I’d been crying.
Then I noticed the folded paper that had fallen out of my purse. the itinerary for the Maldives, the one with both our names on it, the one I’d modified just yesterday with a single phone call. After finding a text from T on Connors phone asking what time their flight left, something shifted inside me, then a tectonic plate moving beneath the landscape of my soul.
The hurt was still there, a gaping wound that might never fully heal. But rising from somewhere deeper came something unexpected. Not just anger, clarity. For the first time in eight years, I saw Connor and Delilah exactly as they were. Not as the people I desperately wanted to please, but as the shallow, cruel people who had never deserved my efforts in the first place.
I picked up my suitcase, not to follow the driver back to an empty house that was never really mine, but to walk into the terminal, pull out my phone, and check the status of flight 2463 to Dixon, Siberia, where three first class passengers would soon discover their luxury vacation had taken an unexpected turn.
Enough was enough, and I was just getting started. Few people knew about my professional background before I became Connors wife. Before I reduced myself to fit his expectations, I’d spent 5 years as a project manager for an international event planning company that specialized in corporate retreats and incentive trips.
My specialty, crisis management and lastminute itinerary changes for VIP clients. The irony wasn’t lost on me as I settled into a coffee shop in the terminal, laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard. Connor and Delilah had always dismissed my career as party planning.
Little did they know I’d once rerouted an entire corporate board from the Bahamas to Alaska in under 12 hours when a hurricane threatened. “Good morning, Veronica,” I said, putting on my most professional voice when the travel agent answered. “This is Cassidy Mitchell from Pinnacle Experiences. I need to implement Plan B for the Stuart Mitchell party.” “Of course, Miss Mitchell. Let me pull up their file.
” The agents voice crisp and efficient. Ah, yes. The contingency arrangements we discussed yesterday. You’re absolutely certain. Completely certain, I replied, feeling a calmness I hadn’t experienced in years. The clients have specifically requested the authentic wilderness experience we discussed.
They’ve signed all the necessary waiverss, which was technically true. Connor had signed the revised itinerary last week without reading it, just as he signed everything I put in front of him. His signature was on documents authorizing changes to their luxury St. Bart’s vacation, though the destination change would certainly come as a surprise. Very good.
I’ve confirmed their accommodations at the Dixon Wilderness Retreat. It’s quite remote, as you requested. Remote was an understatement. Dixon sat on the edge of the Keros in northern Siberia, one of the most isolated human settlements in the world. The Eco retreat I’d booked them into was actually a former Soviet research station that had been half-heartedly converted into tourist accommodations situated conveniently downwind from the region’s largest industrial landfill. Perfect.
And their special requests all arranged, Veronica confirmed. No cell service, limited internet access as per their digital detox requirements. The wilderness guides speak minimal English and the rustic accommodations have been paid in full non-refundable. I smiled and the special welcome package. The local delicacies and traditional attire will be waiting in their rooms.
I must say it’s unusual for clients to request such an authentic experience. The local delicacies consisted of fermented fish and whatever passed for hot cuisine in the Arctic Circle. The traditional attire was essentially hazmat suits for their tour of the nearby landfill, a highlight of their stay. “My clients are adventurous souls,” I replied sweetly.
“They specifically requested something off the beaten path, something memorable.” After finalizing the details, I opened my personal email and crafted a message to myself from the St. Bart’s Resort, confirming the unfortunate overbooking situation and the complimentary upgrade to an exclusive wilderness experience.
I’d forward it to Connor once they landed along with the terms and conditions he’d signed, agreeing that all changes were non-refundable and non-transferable. Everything was perfectly legal. Their flight to St. Barts would mysteriously reroute due to mechanical issues, landing instead in Moscow, where a connecting flight to Dixon would await.
By the time they realized what had happened, it would be too late. I glanced at my watch. Their flight would depart in 40 minutes. Just enough time to handle one more critical task. I navigated to our joint bank accounts and systematically transferred my portion of our savings. Money Connor had always referred to as our emergency fund, but had never contributed to into a new account under my name only. It wasn’t theft. It was reclamation.
Next came the apartment search. Not in our expensive neighborhood where Delila’s friends might spot me, but a modest studio across town. Something temporary, a base from which to rebuild. As I confirmed the apartment application, a text arrived from Connor. Boarding now. Talk to lawyer tomorrow about divorce details. Keys under Matt when you leave.
No apology. No acknowledgement of 8 years together. just practical details as if our marriage had been nothing more than a business arrangement. I texted back, “Have a wonderful trip. I hope it’s everything you deserve.” The double meaning brought a genuine smile to my face.
Another task required handling their social media presence. Connor and Delilah were obsessed with appearances, constantly documenting their perfect lives for their followers. They’d expect to post enviable vacation photos from St. Barts. Instead, they’d have no choice but to go dark.
Their carefully curated online personas disrupted by their sudden digital detox in the Arctic. I purchased a tracking service that would notify me when their phones came back online, allowing me to follow their journey remotely. 12 hours from now, they’d be landing in Moscow, confused, but not yet panicked.
24 hours from now, they’d be reaching their final destination, where the reality of their situation would become horrifyingly clear. For the first time since I’d met Connor, I felt powerful. Not the false power that came from being associated with his name or Delila’s social circle, but something genuine, something earned. I closed my laptop and looked around the busy terminal.
Ordinary people going about their lives, unaware of the quiet revenge being orchestrated in their midst. No dramatic confrontations, no screaming or throwing things, just the precise, methodical dismantling of expectations. As I left the airport, I caught my reflection in a window. I looked different somehow, taller perhaps, or maybe just unbburdened.
I’d spent so long trying to make myself smaller to fit Connors world that I’d forgotten my own strength. Back at the house, I maintained the facade. Anyone watching would see a woman calmly packing her belongings, occasionally taking business calls, making arrangements for movers.
Nothing to suggest the satisfaction warming my chest every time I imagined Connors face when he realized where he was actually going. I’d booked the most expensive package at the retreat, the one with the special wilderness excursion that included camping overnight near the landfill to experience true Arctic survival conditions.
Delilah would be especially thrilled with the communal bathrooms and the traditional Russian breakfast of congealed porridge served daily at 5:00 a.m. sharp. Tessa with her white linen outfit and designer luggage would find the accommodations particularly challenging.
According to their itinerary, their luggage would be delayed for the first 48 hours of their stay, forcing them to wear the provided clothing, heavy wool garments reminiscent of Soviet era factory workers. As evening fell, I made one final call to confirm their transfer from Moscow to Dixon. The coordinator assured me everything was arranged, including this scenic 12-hour layover in a remote terminal with no restaurants or shops. Revenge I was discovering wasn’t about explosive confrontation.
It was art, precision, the careful application of consequences to actions. Connor, Delilah, and Tessa had chosen to humiliate me. Now they would experience the results of that choice in exquisite detail.
I slept soundly that night for the first time in years, dreaming not of reconciliation or even vindication, but of freedom. The freedom that comes from finally seeing the truth and having the courage to act on it. Tomorrow, I would begin rebuilding my life. Tonight, I would enjoy knowing that sometimes justice wears the face of an Arctic wilderness guide named Dimmitri, waiting patiently to introduce three entitled Americans to the realities of Siberian hospitality.
As I sorted through my belongings the next morning, deciding what to take and what to leave behind, memories surfaced like debris after a flood. With my newfound clarity, I could finally see the patterns that had been there all along. Our third date, Connor had ordered for me without asking what I wanted. “Trust me,” he’d said with that charming smile. “I know what you’ll like.” I’d been flattered then, mistaking control for care.
When the dish arrived, something with cilantro which I despised, I ate every bite, ignoring my watering eyes. “See, I knew you’d love it,” he’d said, and I’d nodded, already learning to doubt my own preferences. “The night he proposed, he’d presented the ring with theatrical flourish at a restaurant filled with his colleagues.
“I didn’t want anything too flashy,” he’d explained later when I privately admitted the large diamond wasn’t my style. But people in my position have certain expectations. I’d nodded, understanding that my taste was secondary to his image. I pulled open my bedside drawer and found the small box of momentos I’d kept hidden from Connors minimalist aesthetic.
A dried flower from a bouquet I’d bought myself. A postcard from my sister in Colorado that Connor had dismissed as pedestrian scenery. A small sketchbook of designs I’d dreamed of pursuing before Connor convinced me that marketing offered more stability. My fingers touched something cold and metallic.
My grandmother’s silver bracelet. I’d stopped wearing it after Delilah’s cutting comment at our first Christmas together. How the provincial, she’d said, examining it while the family opened gifts in their coordinated Kashmir sweaters. Connors grandmother had quite the jewelry collection. Tiffany Cardier.
Perhaps one day he’ll let you wear some of her pieces instead. She’d looked pointedly at my wrist. something more befitting as Steuart woman. The memory triggered another last Thanksgiving when Delilah had hosted 20 of their closest friends. I’d spent days helping with preparations only to discover my place card was at the children’s table in the kitchen.
Oh, didn’t Connor tell you? We needed your seat for Senator Abernathy’s daughter. She just got back from Paris and is considering law school. She and Connor have so much to discuss. The daughter’s name had been Tessa. I sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Tessa hadn’t been some random coat check girl.
She’d been strategically placed in our lives for months, perhaps longer. The holiday party, the Thanksgiving dinner, probably dozens of other accidental meetings I’d never witnessed. And that Paris trip hadn’t been real. Tessa had been working coat check just weeks before Thanksgiving. Hardly the jet setting lifestyle of a senator’s daughter.
The elaborate backstory had been crafted to make her seem more suitable, more aligned with their aspirations. A bitterly funny detail emerged from my memory. Connor hated cilantro, too. I discovered it months into our marriage when he’d pushed aside a garnish with disgust. “Can’t stand the stuff,” he’d commented casually. When I’d reminded him of our third date, his response had been dismissive. “You must be confused.
I never ordered that.” But I wasn’t confused. I’d simply accepted his version of reality over my own. The first of countless rewrites to my personal history, like our wedding. I’d wanted something intimate, perhaps at the lakeside where we’d first kissed.
Connor had insisted on his mother’s country club with 300 guests, most of whom I’d never met. This is how it’s done in my family, he’d said, making it clear that his traditions would now be mine. When I’d walked down the aisle, Delilah had stopped the procession to adjust my veil, whispering, “Chin up, dear. You’re marrying above your station. Try to look worthy of it.
” Even my job had been systematically diminished. When we’d first met, I’d been managing international events with budgets in the millions. After we married, Connor had suggested a position at a friend’s local agency to reduce your stress, he’d explained. Besides, my career is demanding enough for both of us.
I’d believed him when he said it was best for our marriage, for our future family. The family that never materialized because Connor always had a reason to wait. Another promotion, a better house, the right time. In reality, children had never been part of his plan for us. They would have divided my attention, given me an identity beyond being his wife. The phone interrupted my thoughts.
A notification from the tracking app. Their plane had landed in New York for a connecting flight. Soon they’d be over the Atlantic, still blissfully unaware of their actual destination. As I closed the notification, I saw an old text thread with my former colleague, Miguel. He’d reached out 6 months ago about an opportunity with his new company.
We’re expanding internationally and need someone with your expertise, he’d written. The travel would be extensive, but the compensation is excellent. I declined without even discussing it with Connor, knowing he’d disapprove of the travel requirements. Now I wondered if Miguel’s offer still stood.
I continued packing, finding more evidence of the gradual erosion of my identity. Photos where I stood at the edges, halfcropped out of family gatherings. Clothes I’d never liked but worn because Connor or Delilah had selected them. Books with turned down pages.
self-help titles about being a supportive partner, about supplimating one’s needs for the good of a relationship. In our home office, I found a folder of dinner party seating arrangements in Delilah’s handwriting. Looking through them, I noticed a pattern. For the past year, Connor had been consistently seated away from me and next to various young accomplished women.
Tessa’s name appeared with increasing frequency over the last 6 months, always placed beside Connor, often with notations like law school discussion or tennis connection. I wasn’t just being replaced. I had been systematically phased out. A carefully orchestrated transition so gradual I hadn’t recognized it happening.
The final piece clicked when I found a brochure for a couple’s therapy retreat dated from 3 years ago. I remembered suggesting it during a rough patch. Connor had refused, calling it new age nonsense. Yet here was the brochure with his handwriting in the margins. Last resort if she won’t accept the changing dynamics.
Even then, he’d been planning his exit, preparing arguments for why our marriage had naturally evolved into something that no longer included me. Not because he’d fallen for someone else, but because I had somehow failed to evolve with him. The truth settled over me with surprising lightness. I hadn’t failed our marriage. It had been designed to fail from the beginning, a temporary arrangement until someone more aligned with Connor and Delilah’s ambitions came along.
I slipped my grandmother’s bracelet onto my wrist, its familiar weight and anchor to who I’d been before and who I might become again. Then I reached for my phone and typed a message to Miguel. Is that international position still available? I find myself unexpectedly free to travel. As I hit send, a notification appeared on my tracking app. Their flight path had changed. The first phase of my plan was in motion. I smiled.
A genuine smile that reached my eyes for the first time in years. Let Connor, Delilah, and Tessa enjoy their strategic alliance in the frozen wasteland I’d arranged for them. I had my own course correction to navigate. Miguel’s response came within the hour. Position is yours if you want it. When can you start? I answered without hesitation.
Two weeks. I have some personal matters to wrap up first. Those personal matters included watching justice unfold in real time. I’d set up a command center of sorts in my new studio apartment. Laptop, phone, and a bottle of wine I’d been saving for a special occasion. This qualified.
According to the flight tracker, Connor, Delilah, and Tessa had just landed in Moscow. Their connecting flight to Dixon wouldn’t leave for 12 hours, giving them plenty of time to stew in a terminal with spotty Wi-Fi and no luxury amenities. I imagine Delila’s increasing agitation, Connors clenched jaw, Tessa’s dawning realization that dating a married man might have unforeseen complications. Right on Q, my phone buzzed with a text from Connor. Flight diverted to Moscow.
Mechanical issues. Airline says we’re being rerouted. What the hell is Dixon? can’t get through to travel agent. I smiled and typed back, “How unfortunate. I’ve forwarded all the documentation to your email. The terms and conditions you signed are quite clear about rerouting protocols.” Three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared.
Finally, this is ridiculous. Fix it. I’m afraid I can’t. As you mentioned, we’re getting divorced. Your travel arrangements are no longer my concern. Enjoy Siberia. I hear it’s lovely this time of year. I muted his number and turned to the task of rebuilding my life. First step, reactivating my professional network.
I spent the morning updating my resume, reaching out to former colleagues, and setting up meetings with potential clients for my freelance work. Before joining Miguel’s company around noon, a notification from Instagram caught my attention. Tessa had posted a story, a blurry shot of the Moscow terminal with a crying emoji. Her caption read, “Vacation nightmare. Stuck in Russia.” At Connor Stewart better have a plan. I clicked on Connors profile. Nothing yet.
He was probably too busy trying to salvage their trip, calling in favors from connections who couldn’t help with the paperwork nightmare I’d arranged. Even his law firm’s influence wouldn’t easily overcome the specific travel authorizations required for their new destination. By evening, they should be boarding their connecting flight to Dixon.
The true realization of their predicament wouldn’t hit until they landed in the remote outpost, where the luxury accommodations they expected would be replaced by the stark reality I’d arranged. I spent the afternoon purging my closet of clothes I’d bought to please Connor and Delilah. Designer pieces in muted colors that had never felt like me.
At the bottom of a drawer, I found a small sketchbook filled with clothing designs I’d abandoned years ago when Connor had called them impractical hobby drawings. The sketches were actually good, better than I remembered. One design in particular, a structured jacket with unexpected details, caught my eye.
On impulse, I photographed it and sent it to my sister with the message. What do you think? Too impractical. Her response was immediate. It’s gorgeous. When did you start designing again? I want one in every color. Something warm unfurled in my chest. Not vindication, but something quieter and more profound. possibility. That evening, I received notification that Connor, Delilah, and Tessa had boarded their final flight.
Within hours, they would arrive in Dixon, where a driver would take them to the eco retreat I’d arranged. I imagined their faces as they first glimpsed the converted research station, the realization dawning that there were no infinity pools or beachside cabanas awaiting them.
While I waited for the inevitable fallout, I cooked myself a proper meal. Something with cilantro, which I discovered I actually loved once I stopped pretending otherwise. I ate at my small kitchen table, savoring each bite, allowing myself to enjoy the simple pleasure of food prepared to my own taste.
Around midnight, my tracking app showed their phones coming back online briefly, just long enough for a flurry of activity before disappearing again. The digital detox portion of their stay had begun. Before the connection dropped, Tessa managed to post once more a dimly lit photo of what looked like a military barracks with three narrow CS and concrete walls. Her caption, “Is this a joke?” at Connor Stewart. “Your surprise sucks.” Delilah had left a voicemail, her voice tight with controlled fury.
Cassidy, this childish prank has gone too far. Connors father had connections in the State Department and I assure you there will be consequences. I deleted the message without responding. Empty threats from a woman whose power over me had evaporated. The next morning I woke to an email from Miguel with details about my new position.
The company was expanding into Asian markets and they needed someone to manage corporate events across multiple countries. The salary was double what I’d been making at the local agency. As I reviewed the offer letter, a text came through from an unknown Russian number. Connor must have found some way to communicate despite the limited connectivity.
You won’t get away with this. We’re stuck in a frozen wasteland eating food I wouldn’t feed to animals. My mother is beside herself. Tessa hasn’t stopped crying. This isn’t funny, Cassidy. I considered ignoring it, but something compelled me to respond one last time. It wasn’t meant to be funny. Actions have consequences. Enjoy the authentic wilderness experience you signed up for.
I’ve moved on and I had. The righteous anger that had fueled my revenge was fading, replaced by a strange lightness. The satisfaction I felt wasn’t about their suffering, but about reclaiming my power. They were no longer central characters in my story, just footnotes in a chapter 1 was closing. Over the next week, I threw myself into preparations for my new life.
I signed the lease on my apartment, accepted Miguel’s offer, and even went on a date with an architect I’d met at a coffee shop. Not because I was ready for a relationship, but because I wanted to remember how it felt to be seen as myself, not as someone’s accessory. Occasionally, I checked the tracking app.
Their phones would appear online briefly, presumably during the few hours each day when the retreat allowed limited connectivity. Each time I felt less invested in their discomfort, more focused on my own path forward. On what would have been the 10th day of their vacation, I received an email from Connors lawyer about divorce proceedings.
I forwarded it to my own attorney, a sharp-witted woman my sister had recommended and went back to packing for my first international assignment. That evening, I sat on my new balcony, watching the sunset paint the sky in colors I’d once thought too bold for my wardrobe. My grandmother’s bracelet caught the fading light as I raised a glass in a silent toast.
Not to revenge, but to liberation. To the woman who had been buried beneath years of subtle manipulation and had emerged stronger. To boundaries that would never again be crossed without consequences. To a life that was unmistakably unapologetically mine. Somewhere in Siberia, Connor, Delilah, and Tessa were counting the days until their return to civilization.
They would eventually make it back. Perhaps a little humbled, certainly furious, but I would already be gone, 30,000 ft above the Earth, heading toward a future they had no part in shaping. And for the first time in 8 years, that future looked limitless.
