I thought Valentine’s Day could save my relationship with my boyfriend, Scott. I really did. So, I went all out. I booked a luxury hotel—marble bathrooms, rooftop pool, chocolate-covered strawberries on the bed, the works.
It cost $3,000, and we had agreed to split it. Scott promised he’d pay me back.
“Don’t worry, babe. I got you. Just put it on your card for now,” he said.
I should have known better. But I was desperate. Our relationship had been falling apart for months. Scott barely texted me. Barely called.
When we were together, he was glued to his phone, scrolling, liking other girls’ posts, commenting on fitness models’ pictures. I was the only one making an effort. I thought maybe a romantic weekend would fix things. Remind him why we fell in love.
We arrived at the hotel Friday evening. The valet took our bags. The lobby smelled like jasmine and expensive candles. Everything was perfect.
The room… wow. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. A king-sized bed with rose petals scattered across it. Champagne chilling in a silver bucket.
I smiled. “This is perfect, right?”
Scott barely looked up from his phone. “Yeah. Sure.”
I shook my head. “Scott, can you put your phone down for like five minutes?”
He sighed and set it on the nightstand. “Happy?”
“Thrilled!” I said, trying to keep my voice cheerful.
We went to dinner at the hotel restaurant. I ordered salmon. He ordered steak. We sat in silence.
I tried again. “So, how’s work been?”
“Fine,” he muttered.
“Just fine?”
“Yeah, Amy. Fine.”
“Are you okay? You seem really distant.”
“I’m fine. Can we just eat?”
I picked at my food. My appetite was gone. This was not how Valentine’s Day was supposed to go.
The next morning, I woke up to Scott sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window.
“Scott? What’s wrong?”
He didn’t turn. “I need space.”
“What do you mean, space? We’re literally on vacation.”
“I mean, I need to figure some things out.”
“Figure what out?”
Finally, he looked at me. “I don’t think this is working.”
By evening, he had made up his mind. He broke up with me. Over text. While sitting in the hotel lobby.
I was in the bathroom trying to pull myself together when my phone buzzed:
“I think we should end this. I just need to be alone right now.”
I ran out, mascara streaked down my cheeks.
“You’re breaking up with me?”
He shrugged. “I thought it would be easier this way.”
“Easier for whom?”
“For both of us. Look, I’m gonna stay here for the rest of the weekend. Clear my head. You should probably go.”
I stared at him. “You want me to leave? I paid for this room!”
“Yeah, and I’ll pay you back. I already said I would.”
“When?”
“Soon. Just… can you go? I need time.”
So I packed my things. Threw my clothes into my suitcase. Scott didn’t help. He just sat on the bed, scrolling. When I left, he didn’t even look up.
I cried the entire drive home.
The next day, my phone blew up with notifications from my banking app.
Hotel charge: $87 – Room Service
Hotel charge: $135 – Room Service
Hotel charge: $220 – Spa Services
I stared in disbelief.
I called Scott. No answer.
I called the hotel. “Hi, I’m calling about charges to my card. I’m the one who booked room 412.”
“One moment, ma’am.” Pause. “Yes, it looks like the guest has been ordering quite a bit. Room service, bar tabs, spa appointments…”
I screamed into the pillow. Scott was using me.
A week later, I checked my bank account. The final bill? Almost $6,000. Not $3,000. Almost double.
He’d charged multiple room service orders, expensive tasting menus, champagne, whiskey, massages… a couple’s spa package.
Wait. Couples?
I called him. Blocked. Texted him. Left on read. He blocked me, too.
I drove to his apartment to demand my money back. But what I saw stopped me cold.
A woman’s clothes on the stairs. Red heels. A lacy black top. A purse I didn’t recognize.
I walked up slowly, heart pounding. The bedroom door cracked open. I heard laughter.
A woman: “You’re terrible!”
Scott: “I know. But she was such a fool. Paid for everything. Got rid of her at the perfect time.”
Woman: “You’re awful. What if she finds out?”
Scott: “She won’t. I blocked her. She’ll get over it. Women always do.”
I froze—not heartbroken this time, but furious.
I didn’t storm in. I left, got in my car, and drove home.
Because I had a much better idea.
I started throwing Scott’s things into boxes: old hoodies, his toothbrush, gaming controller, sneakers he’d been “looking for.”
Then I found it—a stash of expensive products in my closet. Designer cologne, high-end razors, luxury skincare kits.
Scott was an influencer. Brands sent him free stuff for reviews. He had twenty thousand followers and sponsorships worth thousands. He’d always bragged:
“Babe, I just landed a deal with a cologne company. Five thousand dollars for one post. I’m really making it, you know?”
And that’s when inspiration hit.
Scott always used Instagram on shared devices. I grabbed my iPad—he hadn’t logged out. I smiled.
First, I posted a picture of the $6,000 hotel bill. Caption:
“Just finished the BEST week of my life at the 5-star hotel downtown! Used my girlfriend’s money to live like a king.
Treated myself to lobster, champagne, couples’ massages (with my NEW girl, not the old one lol). Cheers to being single and smart! Sometimes you gotta use people to get what you want. 🤷🏻♂️😈💸💰 #NoRegrets #GotRidOfDeadWeight #LivingMyBestLife #SorryNotSorry”
Then I scrolled through his sponsored posts—cologne, razors, skincare, supplements, watches—and started writing reviews:
Cologne: “Honestly, this smells like expired pickle juice mixed with regret. Gave me a headache for three days. My date walked away. Do NOT recommend unless you want to repel humans. 🤦🏻♂️😷”
Razor: “This left me looking like I fought a lawnmower and lost. Patchy, bloody, embarrassing. Zero stars. Negative if I could. 😤”
Skincare: “Face cream made me break out worse than a teenage acne commercial. Save your money and face. 😱”
Fitness supplement: “Tasted like chalk mixed with sadness. Stomach cramps for two days. Hard pass. 🤢🤮”
Finally, a selfie:
“Found an AMAZING new girlfriend right after my breakup. Life moves on so fast! Already forgot the last one’s name lol. 💞#UpgradeComplete #NewBeginnings”
I sat back. Comments poured in:
“Bro, what happened to you?”
“Why are you trashing brands that pay you?”
“Congratulations! You just blew up your career!”
“You sound unhinged, man.”
I smiled as his follower count started dropping—hundreds at a time.
Next morning, someone pounded on my door. Scott. Face red, phone in hand.
“What did you do?!” he shouted.
“Good morning to you, too,” I said.
“I forgot I was still logged into Instagram on your iPad. You posted all that crap pretending to be me, didn’t you?”
“Maybe next time, don’t cheat and leave your passwords behind,” I said calmly.
“You ruined me! SEVEN brands dropped me yesterday! TWO are threatening to sue me!”
“You destroyed my bank account. My trust. My Valentine’s Day. My dignity.”
“This is different! I had DEALS! PARTNERSHIPS!”
“And I had $6K charged to my card while you were with someone else in a room I paid for.”
He stared, breathless. “You need to take those posts down!”
“Or what?”
His phone rang. Another angry voice:
“WE SENT YOU A $50,000 CAMPAIGN, AND YOU POSTED OUR PRODUCT SMELLS LIKE GARBAGE AND REGRET?!”
Scott stammered: “I… I didn’t write that! Someone hacked my account…”
“Someone hacked my account.” I corrected.
He crumbled. “You destroyed me.”
“Nope. You did, the second you used me, dumped me, and celebrated with my money.”
I handed him a box of his things. “Take your stuff and get out. Oh, and log out of all devices next time.”
His follower count had dropped by 5,000. His brand deals—gone. His reputation—ruined.
And me? I sat on my couch, eating ice cream, scrolling through the chaos I created.
Some heartbreaks end in tears. Mine ended with brand cancellations, screaming clients, and a very satisfying log out of all devices.