My massage studio was my sanctuary—a place where people came to relax and where I could momentarily forget the stress of my own life. Yesterday, that sanctuary was shattered by the arrival of a client I will never forget.
The doorbell chimed, and in walked a stunning young woman, all confidence and red lipstick. Her smile was bright as she handed me her phone.
“Can you take a picture of me?” she asked sweetly. “I want to send it to my boyfriend.”
“Of course,” I replied, masking my curiosity.
She struck a playful pose on the massage table. “Finally, I’m going to relax.”
“Too much stress?” I asked as I snapped the photo.
“Too much!” she sighed dramatically. “My boyfriend’s going through a divorce. It’s been so messy. But honestly, I don’t blame him. I’d leave her too.”
Her words stung, but I kept my expression neutral.
“She doesn’t do makeup, doesn’t wear dresses,” she continued. “She just works, looks after their kids, cooks, and cleans. I mean, where’s the fun in that? Of course, he’ll get the house—it’s his. The kids can stay with her. I’m not raising someone else’s brats.”
I froze. My heart pounded as her words sank in. Could it be…?
Then her phone buzzed on the counter. Glancing at the screen, I saw her lock screen—a picture of her cozying up to my husband.
I swallowed hard, my mind racing. She hadn’t recognized me. I was just a faceless “wife” she thought wasn’t good enough for her “boyfriend.”
“Oh, I’ll answer later,” she said dismissively.
“No, dear,” I said, my voice icy. “Please, answer. It’s my husband—your boyfriend dreaming to divorce me—calling you.”
Her eyes widened in shock as the reality of my words hit her. The room went silent, her confidence replaced with sheer panic.
“You…you’re his wife?” she stammered.
“Yes,” I replied. “The woman who doesn’t wear dresses or makeup. The one who works, cooks, cleans, and raises his children.”
She tried to sit up, but her body didn’t cooperate. That’s when the numbing sensation kicked in—the result of a carefully placed muscle relaxant oil I had used during the massage.
“What the hell did you do to me?!” she screamed, realizing she couldn’t move.
“Relax,” I said with a calm smile, repeating her earlier words. “You came here to unwind, didn’t you?”
She flailed weakly, her voice shrill with anger and fear. I leaned in close.
“Don’t worry,” I said softly. “It’s temporary. Just like your relationship with my husband.”
As she lay there, helpless and humiliated, I took my time packing up her things and calling a cab.
When she was finally able to move again, I handed her the divorce papers I had already drafted for her boyfriend.
“Deliver these to him, would you?” I said as I opened the door. “And don’t worry about the massage—this one’s on the house.”
She left without a word, and I watched her retreating figure with a strange sense of peace. It wasn’t just about revenge—it was about reclaiming my power. And I had done just that.