I even stuffed a few of them inside the decorative pillows. It didn’t take much—just a handful of raw shrimp tucked deep enough where no one would ever think to look. Then I waited, patient as a hunter, knowing it would only take a few days for the shrimps to work their magic.

You see, I knew Melissa. She wasn’t going to keep this furniture in her home. She’d never want daily reminders of her past life, especially with us. No, she’d dump it all in some fancy storage unit and pat herself on the back for making our life miserable. What she didn’t know was that she’d also be locking in her own nightmare. I couldn’t wait to see how those little pieces of meat would turn her prized furniture into an unbearable stink bomb.

As the movers carried out the last piece of furniture, Melissa stood there, surveying the house with smug satisfaction. She was dressed to perfection, not a hair out of place, and I could practically hear her thoughts: mission accomplished.

“I hope you’ve taken everything that’s YOURS,” I said, arms crossed, fighting to keep my face calm.

She flashed a saccharine smile. “Yup, I’m done, honey. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Sure, sorry, I thought. Sorry like a cat is sorry after knocking over a vase.

Melissa strutted out, slid into her shiny SUV, and drove off as if she had won. Meanwhile, Roger sat slumped on the ground, his head buried in his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered, tears streaking down his face. “I didn’t know how to tell you. She called me a few days ago and said she’d be coming, but I never thought she’d actually go through with this. I never thought she’d… destroy us like this.”

I sat beside him, gently rubbing his arm.

“It’s alright, babe,” I whispered. “Honestly? I wouldn’t want to live in a house furnished by your ex-wife anyway.”

I could have lashed out. I could have screamed, blamed him for letting Melissa walk all over us, made him feel even worse. But that’s exactly what she wanted—to see us unravel, to plant poison between us. I wasn’t about to give her that satisfaction.

Instead, I forced a small laugh. “Tell you what—forget the apologies. I want new furniture. Anything I pick. Deal?”

Roger lifted his head, managing a shaky smile. “Deal. I’ll buy every single piece you want. I promise.”

I squeezed his hand tight. “That’s all I need. I love you, Roger. We’ll make this house ours again. Together.”

That night, lying on the bare bedroom floor, I realized something important: I didn’t need Melissa’s furniture to feel at home. I had Roger, and that was enough.

But the story didn’t end there.

A few days later, while scrolling through Facebook, a post caught my eye in one of the local community groups. The author? None other than Melissa herself.

HELP NEEDED URGENTLY!
Does anyone know how to get rid of a horrible, rotting meat smell in furniture? I recently moved some old pieces into a storage unit, and within days, it started smelling like something died inside.

I’ve tried airing it out, deep cleaning, even baking soda—but nothing works! The stench is unbearable. I can’t even step inside the storage room without gagging. PLEASE—any tips would help, I’m losing my mind!

I nearly fell off the couch laughing. The woman who prided herself on elegance, status, and control was now being publicly humiliated by a swarm of invisible shrimp. All her wealth, all her pride—brought low by a stink she couldn’t scrub away.

It was poetic justice. Sweet, stinking revenge—served cold.