Here’s a shortened version of the story that keeps the key moments and emotional tone intact:
One crisp autumn day, I sat alone in my cozy apartment, sunlight filtering through the window as I waited for Jace. He hadn’t visited in days, always with some excuse, and something felt off. I called—he answered groggily, claiming he was sick, then hung up before I could say goodbye.
Worried, I grabbed supplies and headed to his apartment. But when the elevator doors opened, there he was—arms wrapped around another woman. My heart sank.
“Looks like you’re feeling better,” I said coldly. He stammered, but I shut him down, hurled the groceries at him, and walked away.
Days passed with no apology. I couldn’t move on without closure, so I texted. We agreed to meet at our café—but he never showed. Instead, he sent a cowardly message: “I can’t stand seeing you so sad.”
Furious, I returned home—only to find her outside my door. She wanted to talk. Her name was Ashley. She told me Jace lied to both of us, making each of us think the other was the villain. We poured wine, swapped stories, and realized he played us both.
Then Ashley said one word: “Revenge.”
We created dating profiles for Jace, lured men to his apartment, and even posted his number online. The final touch? A giant billboard with his photo and the words: “Looking for a man to support and cherish.” His panicked texts poured in. We demanded payment to stop.
He sent the money. We ghosted him.
A week later, Ashley and I were in Spain, sipping sangria on the beach. She raised her glass. “Best team effort ever,” she said. And she was right.
Would you like this version trimmed even further for social media or a script format?
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