Their Tears, My Sweet Revenge

For twenty years, I lived with the Thompson family. Their two sons, Mark and David, were my entire world. Everyone said I was the luckiest girl alive, caught between the unwavering devotion of the two most eligible bachelors in town.

But when I told them I wanted to get married, they laughed in my face, calling our two decades together "just a bit of fun."

The very next day, on my birthday, they publicly proposed to the housekeeper's daughter, Sarah.

To celebrate, they forced me to drink a glass of high-proof liquor for her, sending me to the hospital with a bleeding stomach. They called me a drama queen for ruining Sarah's special moment.

Back at the mansion, they threw my belongings in the hall, gave my job to Sarah, and then Mark slapped me hard across the face.

The two boys who once fought to defend my honor left me crying in the mud, calling me a parasite who wouldn't survive a week without them. My twenty years of love and devotion meant nothing.

Lying on the floor with a broken ankle from where David had deliberately stomped on it, I finally understood.

The next day, I posted a single photo to my social media. It was my hand, next to a man's, holding a brand new marriage certificate.

My caption was simple: "Mrs. Olivia Sullivan."

Chapter 1

My life was supposed to be a fairytale. After my family' s business collapsed, my mother' s best friend, Mrs. Thompson, took me in. I grew up in their mansion, a constant fixture between her two sons, Mark and David.

For twenty years, they were my world.

Mark, the older one, was my shadow. He' d bring me breakfast in bed, fix my car before I even knew it was broken, and scare off any boy who so much as looked at me.

David, the younger, was my sunlight. He' d make me laugh until my sides hurt, plan spontaneous trips to the beach, and fill my room with flowers for no reason at all.

Everyone said I was the luckiest girl alive, caught between the unwavering devotion of the two most eligible bachelors in town. Their blatant favoritism made me the target of endless envy. I believed it, too. I thought their affection was the most stable thing in my life.

So when I turned twenty-five, I finally gathered the courage to tell them what I wanted most. We were in the living room, a rare quiet moment.

"I' ve been thinking a lot about the future," I started, my hands clasped in my lap. "I want to get married. I want to have kids, a real family."

The silence that followed was heavy and cold.

Mark, who was reading a financial report, didn' t even look up. "I' m focused on my career right now, Olivia. I have no time for marriage."

David, scrolling on his phone, let out a short, sharp laugh.

"Seriously? I' m too young for that. I still want to have fun." He finally looked at me, a smirk on his face I' d never seen before. "Besides, it was all just a bit of fun, wasn' t it? Don' t take things so seriously."

Just a bit of fun. Twenty years.

It felt like the floor had dropped out from under me.

The very next day was my birthday party. The house was filled with people, music, and laughter, but all I felt was a hollow ache in my chest. I tried to plaster a smile on my face, but it felt brittle.

Then, Mark and David stepped into the center of the room, glasses raised. I thought, for a foolish second, they were going to toast to me.

Instead, they turned to Sarah, the housekeeper' s daughter, who was standing shyly in the corner.

"Sarah," Mark said, his voice ringing with a sincerity he had denied me just the night before. "Will you marry me?"

Before Sarah could even react, David pushed forward, a matching hopeful look on his face. "No, marry me, Sarah!"

The room erupted in shocked whispers. They proposed to her. Simultaneously. On my birthday.

Sarah blushed, looking between them with wide, innocent eyes. "I... I don' t know what to say."

"Say yes to both of us!" David shouted playfully.

The crowd laughed, caught up in the bizarre, romantic spectacle. I just stood there, frozen.

To celebrate, Mark grabbed a bottle of high-proof liquor from the bar. He poured a glass and brought it to Sarah. "A toast to you, my love."

Sarah giggled and shook her head. "Oh, I can' t drink that, it' s too strong."

David' s eyes landed on me. A cruel smile spread across his lips. "Olivia can drink it for you. She' s tough."

He strode over, snatched the glass, and shoved it into my hand. "Drink up, Olivia. A toast to the happy couple. Or, couples."

"I can' t," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "You know I have a sensitive stomach. The doctor said-"

"Don' t be a buzzkill, Olivia," Mark cut in, his tone sharp. "It' s a party. Don' t ruin it for Sarah."

Sarah looked at me, her eyes pleading. "Please, Olivia? Just one sip? For me?"

Their faces, all three of them, were expectant. It was a test. A public shaming. The pressure from the crowd was immense. My hands trembled as I lifted the glass to my lips. The cheap liquor burned its way down my throat, a trail of fire lighting up my insides.

A sharp, stabbing pain immediately seized my stomach. I doubled over, gasping. The glass shattered on the floor. I could feel something hot and wet rising in my throat.

I was rushed to the emergency room with a bleeding stomach. As the paramedics wheeled me out, I saw Mark and David standing together. They were shielding Sarah' s eyes with their hands, as if to protect her from the sight of me.

"She' s always so dramatic," I heard David mutter.

"Just trying to get attention," Mark agreed.

Lying in the sterile hospital bed, the cold autumn air seeping through the window, my phone rang. It was Mark.

"Where the hell did you go?" he yelled, his voice furious. "You just ran off and left this whole mess. You owe Sarah an apology for ruining her special moment."

David' s voice came through the phone, equally angry. "Sarah' s been crying because of you! She thinks you hate her now. Your little fake illness really stressed her out."

I looked at my pale, frail reflection in the dark screen of the phone. I saw the IV drip attached to my arm. Fake illness. I didn' t say a word. I just quietly ended the call.

Then, I dialed another number.

"Mom," I said, my voice hoarse.

"Olivia? Honey, what' s wrong? Are you okay?"

Her voice, full of genuine concern, was the only warmth I had felt all night. For twenty years, she had been working tirelessly, rebuilding our family' s business from the ashes, all for me. She was the one who had secured the connection with the powerful Sullivan family, giving me an option, a way out that I had always been too blind to see.

"Mom," I said, my decision hardening with every painful beat of my heart. "I' ve made up my mind. I' ll marry Mr. Sullivan."

There was a pause on the other end. "Are you sure, sweetheart? You don' t have to."

"I' m sure," I said. I finally understood. To the Thompson brothers, I was just a fleeting amusement. A comfortable habit they had no intention of keeping. It was time to leave.

I booked a flight, planning to leave as soon as I was discharged. But then a new post from Sarah appeared on my social media feed. It stopped me cold.

The caption read: "True love needs no words. Only useless old women have to scheme and plot to climb the ladder."

The picture was of her, lounging on my bed, in my room at the Thompson mansion. She was wearing the custom-made gown and crystal shoes Mark and David had ordered for my birthday. On her fingers, she flaunted two identical, sparkling engagement rings.

My things. My room. My dress. My life.

I blocked her number and her profile without a second thought.

Then I called my mother again.

"Mom, I' m serious. I want to have my own child. Soon."

The doctor in the ER had been blunt. The damage to my stomach lining was severe. He' d warned me that the stress and injury had weakened my body significantly. If I waited too long, I might not be able to conceive at all.

"I understand, Olivia," my mother said, her voice steady and supportive. "I respect your decision. I' ll make the arrangements with the Sullivan family."

A wave of relief washed over me. I was finally choosing myself.