Page 30 of Nanny for the Firefighters

"No reason," I mumbled, pushing the remaining pancake around my plate. The syrup, once so inviting, now resembled a pool of betrayal.

Mark, blissfully unaware of the emotional landmines he was navigating, reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Hey, everything alright? You seem… distant."

Distant? Try utterly devastated. But I plastered a smile on my face, the effort almost comical. "Just tired, honey. Long week."

He bought it, the dope. He leaned in for a kiss, and for a fleeting moment, I almost gave in. I almost let myself pretend that none of this had happened, that our future of picket fences and children was still intact.

But then the image of a tear-streaked woman cradling a baby with eyes that looked suspiciously like Mark's flashed in my mind. The documentary had shown interviews with the victims, and one of them, a young woman barely out of college, had clutched a wailing infant to her chest, her voice thick with choked sobs as she recounted her "whirlwind romance" with Mark.

That was it. The final nail in the coffin of our relationship and the spark that ignited a fire of righteous fury within me.

Mark pulled back, a questioning look in his eyes. "Ella? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said, my voice deceptively calm. "Absolutely nothing."

He seemed unconvinced, but before he could press further, I stood up abruptly. "Actually, I think I need some air. You finish up here."

Mark opened his mouth to protest, but I was already out the door, the cool morning air a welcome shock to my system. As I walked, a new resolve hardened within me.

Mark was a lost cause, a human black hole that sucked the joy and money out of everyone around him. But the other women? They deserved better. They deserved justice.

The criminal justice degree I was working toward suddenly felt hollow. It wouldn't help these women get their money back, wouldn't mend their broken hearts. No, I needed a different approach. A more… hands-on one.

Mark liked to take the "scenic route" home, especially late at night when the streets were deserted. It involved a detour through a cobbled alleyway tucked behind a row of trendy shops, the perfect hunting ground for the likes of him. Tonight, though, the hunter would become the hunted.

I'd spent the last week trailing his every move, mapping out his patterns and identifying his favorite late-night haunts. It seemed he had a type—young women, preferably fresh-faced and slightly naive—a perfect reflection of myself not so long ago.

Tonight would mark the end of his reign of romantic terror. I'd dressed with practicality in mind. dark jeans, running shoes built for a hasty exit, a hoodie pulled over my face. I even carried my textbooks in a backpack for good measure because hey, even a vigilante needs to accessorize.

He appeared as if conjured by my sheer force of will—slinking out of a dimly lit wine bar, a slightly unsteady blonde with an adoring smile hanging on his arm. Fury flared through me, and I took a steadying breath. This was for her, and for all the others.

"Marky," I trilled, stepping out from the shadows and relishing the way he almost jumped out of his skin. "Fancy meeting you here."

The blonde was staring at me with wide, confused eyes. "Babe, who?—"

I didn't let him finish. With a speed born of pure, righteous anger, I lunged forward, connecting my palm with his cheek in a resounding slap. It was like a scene from a badly written soap opera, only this was real. This was raw.

Mark stumbled back, a hand cradling his face. "Ella? What the hell?"

"What the hell?" I echoed, my voice dripping with venom. "That's what I should be asking, you lying, manipulative piece of …" I trailed off, unable to find a word strong enough to encompass the sheer depth of his betrayal.

The blonde, bless her heart, was finally connecting the dots. Her mouth formed an 'O' of shocked realization, and I braced myself for the inevitable waterworks.

Mark, suddenly the picture of smooth-talking desperation, was scrambling for words. "Honey, this isn't what it looks like. We can explain!"

And that's when I brandished Exhibit A, a hefty binder crammed with printouts of bank statements, emails, and screenshots of Mark's very sweet, very scammy conversations with half the female population of the city.

The blonde paled, her eyes darting from Mark to the binder and back. When she spoke, her voice trembled with disbelief. "Is… is any of this true?"

Mark had turned an alarming shade of puce. "Babe, come on, it's not?—"

He didn't get to finish. The blonde, in a remarkable display of newfound spine, snatched her purse from him and stormed off, high heels clacking defiantly in the silence.

Mark turned to me, his voice a pathetic whine. "Ella, this wasn't supposed to happen! It's different with you, I swear!"

I narrowed my eyes. "Different with me? Funny, I was under the impression that draining my student savings account until my credit card was about to explode was just a quirky first-date thing you did."

He was silent, and I took grim satisfaction in it. My anger had simmered down, leaving a cold emptiness in its wake. This wasn't about revenge anymore. It was about closing a chapter, about setting things right in my own twisted, vigilante way. With a shrug, I tossed my binder at his feet. "Consider this your parting gift."