Revenge isn't sweet. It’s thick, warm, and drips down your thighs for hours.

My name is Sofia Moretti. Thirty-three. Event planner. I organize the weddings everyone dreams of. I also ruin the ones that deserve it.

The bride was my ex-fiancé’s new wife. The groom—Luca—was the man who left me six months before our own wedding date with a text message and a plane ticket to Milan.

I took the job anyway. Revenge is best served in five-star style.

The villa was perfect: stone walls, vineyards rolling like green velvet, sunset bleeding orange across the sky. The reception was in full swing—string quartet, champagne towers, laughter that sounded expensive.

I wore black. Not mourning black. Fuck-you black. A floor-length gown with a slit to my hip, no bra, thin straps that kept slipping just enough.

Luca noticed me the second I walked in. His eyes widened. His smile faltered. His wife—blonde, twenty-eight, innocent-looking—didn’t notice a thing.

I waited until the cake cutting. While everyone was distracted, I slipped into the groom’s private suite upstairs. He followed two minutes later, like I knew he would.

He shut the door. Locked it.

“Sofia…” His voice was already hoarse.

I didn’t let him finish. I pushed him against the wall, kissed him like I was trying to bruise his mouth. He groaned, hands immediately on my hips.

“You’re married now,” I whispered against his lips. “Does she know how dirty you like it?”

He didn’t answer. Just spun me around, bent me over the antique dresser. Mirror in front. I watched his reflection as he hiked my dress up, found I wasn’t wearing panties.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

He dropped to his knees first. Tongue on me, hungry, desperate. I gripped the edge of the dresser, watched myself in the mirror—lips parted, eyes half-lidded, breasts spilling out of the low neckline.

When I was close, I pulled away. Turned. Pushed him onto the bed.

I straddled him. Guided him inside me. Slow at first—torturing him. Then I rode him hard, grinding, taking everything I wanted. He tried to flip me. I pinned his wrists.

“This is my party now,” I hissed.

He came first—deep, shuddering, filling me while begging my name. I kept going, chasing my own release, until I clenched around him and shattered, biting his shoulder to muffle the sound.

I stood up immediately after. Fixed my dress. Wiped between my thighs with one of his monogrammed towels.

“Don’t follow me,” I said at the door.

I returned to the reception. Smiled at the bride. Toasted the happy couple. Watched Luca stumble back downstairs ten minutes later, tie crooked, face flushed.

Later that night I sat on the villa balcony, glass of Brunello in hand, feeling his cum still inside me.

Revenge isn’t sweet.

It’s thick, warm, and it drips down your thighs for hours.