I thought Valentine’s Day would save my relationship with Scott. I really did. So, I went all in. I booked a luxury hotel—the kind with marble bathrooms, rooftop pools, and chocolate-covered strawberries waiting on the bed. Total cost? $3,000.
Scott and I agreed to split it.
“Don’t worry, babe. I got you. Just put it on your card for now,” he said with a casual shrug.
I should’ve known better. But I was desperate. Our relationship had been crumbling for months. Scott barely texted. Barely called. And when we were together, he was glued to his phone, liking other girls’ posts and commenting on fitness models’ pictures. I was the only one trying to make this work.
So I thought—maybe, just maybe, a romantic weekend would remind him why we fell in love.
Friday evening, we arrived. The valet whisked away our bags. The lobby smelled of jasmine and expensive candles. Everything screamed perfection.
The room? Stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing the city skyline. A king-sized bed, 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.”
“Scott, can you put your phone down for like five minutes?”
He sighed, setting it on the nightstand. “Happy?”
“Thrilled!” I said, though my excitement felt half-empty.
Dinner at the hotel restaurant followed. I ordered salmon. He ordered steak. And then silence.
I tried again. “So, how’s work been?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Yeah, Amy. Fine.”
“Are you okay? You seem really distant.”
“I’m fine. Can we just eat?”
I poked at my food, appetite gone. This wasn’t how Valentine’s Day was supposed to feel.
The next morning, I woke to Scott sitting on the bed, staring out the window like he’d seen a ghost.
“Scott? What’s wrong?”
He didn’t turn around. “I need space.”
“What do you mean, space? We’re literally on vacation.”
“I need to figure some things out.”
“Figure what out?”
Finally, he faced me. “I don’t think this is working.”
By evening, it was official. He dumped me. Over text. While sitting in the hotel lobby.
I was in the bathroom, mascara running down my face, when my phone buzzed:
“I think we should end this. I just need to be alone right now.”
I ran out. “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’ll stay here for the weekend. Clear my head. You should probably go.”
I stared. “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 alone.”
So I packed. Threw my clothes in my suitcase. He didn’t help. He didn’t even look up. I cried all the way home.
The next day, my phone buzzed. Hotel charges.
$87. Room service.
$135. Room service.
$220. Spa services.
I called Scott. No answer.
I called the hotel. “Hi, I’m calling about charges to my card. I booked room 412.”
“One moment, ma’am.” Pause. “Yes… the guest has been ordering quite a bit. Room service, bar tabs, spa appointments.”
I called Scott again. Straight to voicemail.
Screaming into a pillow didn’t help. He was using me.
A week later, the final bill posted. Almost $6,000.
I stared at my screen, heart hammering. Room service. Champagne. Whiskey. Massages. A couple’s spa package. Wait—couples?
I called Scott. Blocked. Texted. Left on read. He blocked me everywhere.
He hadn’t just dumped me. He’d planned this. Used me. Disappeared with my money.
I drove to his apartment, ready to scream, demand my cash back. But then I saw it.
A woman’s clothes on the stairs. Red heels. A lacy top. A purse I didn’t recognize.
Upstairs, laughter.
A woman: “You’re terrible!”
Scott: “I know. But she was such a fool. Paid for everything. I got rid of her at the perfect time.”
More laughter. “You’re awful. What if she finds out?”
“You won’t. I blocked her. She’ll get over it. Women always do.”
I froze. Furious. Not heartbroken—furious.
I went home. Started packing Scott’s things: hoodies, toothbrush, gaming controller, sneakers. That’s when I found it.
His stash. Designer cologne. High-end razors. Luxury skincare kits—all unopened.
Oh. Right. Scott was an influencer. Brands sent him free stuff for rave reviews. His Instagram? Twenty thousand followers. Sponsorships worth thousands.
He’d always bragged. “Babe, I just landed a deal with a cologne company. $5,000 for one post. I’m really making it!”
And then inspiration struck.
He left his Instagram logged in on my iPad.
I smiled.
First, I posted a picture of the $6K hotel bill:
“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 went through his sponsored posts. High-end cologne. Luxury razor. Skincare line. Fitness supplements. A watch company.
I wrote honest reviews under his account:
Cologne: “Honestly, this smells like expired pickle juice mixed with regret and bad decisions. Gave me a headache for three days straight. My date literally walked away from me at dinner. Do NOT recommend unless you want to repel humans. 🤦🏻♂️😷”
Razor: “This razor left me looking like I got into a fight with a lawnmower and LOST. Patchy, bloody, embarrassing. Zero stars. Negative stars if I could. 😤”
Skincare: “This cream made my skin break out worse than a teenage acne commercial. Save your money and your face. 😱”
Fitness supplement: “Tasted like chalk mixed with sadness. Gave me stomach cramps for two days. Hard pass. 🤢🤮”
And one final post—a selfie with the caption:
“Found an AMAZING new girlfriend right after my breakup. Life moves on fast! Already forgot the last one’s name lol. 💞 #UpgradeComplete #NewBeginnings”
Within minutes, comments flooded in:
“Bro, what happened to you?”
“Why are you trashing brands that literally PAY you?”
“Congratulations! You just blew up your career!”
“You sound unhinged, man.”
I smiled.
Then Scott showed up at my door, red-faced.
“What did you do?!”
“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.”
“You ruined me! Seven brands dropped me yesterday! Two are threatening to sue me!”
“And I had $6K charged to my card while you were screwing someone else in a room I paid for,” I said.
He sputtered. “You need to take those posts down. Right now.”
“Or what?”
His phone rang. Another angry voice. “Scott, what the hell is going on with your account? You posted that our product smells like garbage and regret!”
He grabbed a box I handed him and stormed out.
That afternoon, I checked Instagram. Scott had deleted the posts—but it was too late. Screenshots were everywhere. People were roasting him. His follower count had dropped by 5,000. Brands gone. 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 screaming clients, brand cancellations, and a very satisfying: log out of all devices.