Torn Pages

Every Wednesday night, they met in the backroom of Dahlia's Bookstore.

The soft clink of teacups, the rustle of pages, the forced laughter—like any other neighborhood book club. But beneath the polite smiles and literary chatter, a story was dying to be told.

And tonight, Elizabeth intended to read it out loud.

Elizabeth White, age 42, was the founder and leader of the Thursday Pages, a book club she’d created ten years ago. They had started with Pride and Prejudice, then Beloved, then The Bell Jar, and now—perhaps fittingly—The Count of Monte Cristo.

Revenge. Justice. Masks.

Fitting.

She sat at the head of the circle, with her usual poise and a faint, unreadable smile. On her left sat Catherine, the Instagram-perfect therapist. Next to her, Joel, the recently divorced high school English teacher. Then Ramona, the quiet, steely-eyed florist. Then Darren, the ever-charming theater director. And finally, Imani, the sharp-witted editor with a laugh like glass breaking.

All sipping tea. All feigning normalcy.

Elizabeth placed her copy of The Count of Monte Cristo on the table.

“Shall we begin?”

“Let’s talk about betrayal,” Elizabeth began. “How it doesn’t always look like daggers or poison. Sometimes it looks like a friend’s well-intentioned advice.”

Catherine blinked.

“We’re discussing Chapter 34, yes?” Catherine asked.

“No,” Elizabeth said softly, turning a page. “We’re discussing my life.”

The room stiffened.

“You remember when I went on medical leave?” Elizabeth asked, eyes fixed on Catherine.

Catherine’s throat tightened. “Of course. You—”

“Had a breakdown,” Elizabeth finished. “Because I believed I was losing my mind. Hallucinations. Anxiety attacks. Paranoia.”

Catherine paled.

“You were my therapist,” Elizabeth said. “You told me to consider institutionalization. You said I was unstable. But what you didn’t say—what you hid—was that you were the one who told the others. Who whispered that I might be dangerous. That I needed to step down from the club I founded.”

Catherine’s mouth opened, then shut.

Elizabeth pulled a folded note from her book. “You left this in your planner. 'E is spiraling. If she resigns, we can reformat the club dynamic. Maybe Ramona can take over.’”

Everyone looked at Ramona.

Catherine stammered, “I—I didn’t mean—”

“I’m sure,” Elizabeth said calmly. “I suppose therapy sometimes looks a lot like gaslighting.”

She turned the page. “Shall we continue?”

Joel was sweating.

“You once said betrayal isn’t always personal,” Elizabeth said. “Sometimes it’s professional.”

Joel adjusted his glasses. “Liz, if this is about the article—”

“Oh, it’s not just about the article,” she smiled. “It’s about my manuscript. My memoir. The one I workshopped here.”

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie,” she interrupted. “You published it under a different title. Slightly reworded, same plot. Same trauma. Same abuser name. The exact same closing line.”

Imani gasped.

“I pitched that book for five years,” Elizabeth said. “And then Joel—who I generously let read my early drafts—suddenly becomes a breakout author. ‘A House Without Locks’—a story of a woman trapped in a childhood of silence.”

Joel held up his hands. “I changed the ending!”

“Right,” Elizabeth said, her voice cool. “You made her forgive the abuser.”

“That was artistic license—”

Elizabeth slid a recording device onto the table and pressed play.

“Yeah, Liz’s story was solid, but too raw. I needed something more marketable. No one buys tragedy unless it’s hopeful.”

Joel turned white.

“I never even wanted fame,” Elizabeth whispered. “But I’ll enjoy watching yours rot.”

“Ramona,” Elizabeth said next, sipping her tea. “Tell me—what does it feel like to cut someone's lifeline?”

Ramona said nothing.

“You were my friend. My emergency contact. You had my house key.”

Still silent.

“You entered my home while I was recovering. I trusted you to water my plants and feed my cat.”

Imani glanced over. “You told us her cat ran away.”

Elizabeth smiled. “No, I said the cat was gone. You assumed.”

Ramona’s lip trembled.

“I had stopped taking my antidepressants—by choice, mind you—and had them hidden in a locked drawer. You dumped them down the sink.”

“You said you were scared you’d relapse,” Ramona finally said.

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “So your solution was to sabotage my medication?”

“You were zoning out! You fell asleep during sessions, during conversations! I thought you—”

Elizabeth threw something onto the table.

A tiny black box.

“I had a nanny cam. I watched you do it. With gloves.”

Ramona stood. “You don’t know what it’s like to love someone and think they might disappear!”

“You’re right,” Elizabeth said. “But I do know what it’s like to be betrayed in the name of love.”

“Darren,” Elizabeth said sweetly. “Ever the performer.”

He smirked. “Don’t tell me I forgot your birthday.”

“You sabotaged my entire grant application,” she said.

Darren blinked. “What?”

“You offered to ‘proofread it.’ You rewrote whole sections. Took out citations. Changed language. I missed the deadline resubmitting. And wouldn’t you know it—your theater proposal got funded.”

“I never touched your files,” Darren said smoothly.

Elizabeth snapped her fingers.

A printed email appeared on the table. “Sent from your IP. ‘Revised_Draft_EWhite.docx’ — a file you emailed to yourself. I traced it.”

He chuckled. “You went through my digital trash?”

“Is that what you call integrity?”

Darren leaned back. “You can’t prove anything.”

Elizabeth lifted her phone and played a voicemail:

“You’ll bounce back, Liz. Honestly, it’s survival of the fittest. My project had more heart anyway.”

A full silence followed.

“I’m staging my own production now,” Elizabeth said. “Opening next month. Guess who’s been blacklisted?”

Darren’s smile faded.

Last was Imani. The only one who hadn’t spoken.

“You were the first person I trusted,” Elizabeth said. “The first who read my words.”

Imani stared back. “I believed in your work.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Until you sold my editing notes to a publisher.”

Imani’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t understand how the industry works.”

“You sent them my raw, annotated drafts and claimed you ghost-edited it. You gave them access before I submitted.”

Imani didn’t deny it.

“‘Give her a year,’ you said. ‘She’ll burn out. I’ll repackage it.’”

“I was trying to protect your voice,” Imani said. “The real world would’ve butchered it worse.”

Elizabeth was quiet.

Then she opened a final envelope.

“Here’s a copy of your nondisclosure agreement. The one I revised before signing. It includes an AI-generated signature log, date-stamped. I’ve already sent it to my lawyer.”

Imani’s mask cracked. “You wouldn't—”

“I already did.”

Elizabeth stood.

Each betrayal, lined up like chapters in a book.

“You all wondered why we were reading The Count of Monte Cristo. You thought it was random. But it was prophecy.”

She picked up her copy of the novel—only now, they could see: it was hollowed out, filled with pages from her revenge journal, color-coded by name.

“You pushed me out. Mocked me behind closed doors. Took pieces of me like it was a library and I was just overdue.”

She walked toward the door. “The difference between you and me?”

She looked over her shoulder.

“I finish my books.”

Three months later:

Catherine lost her license after complaints revealed she'd manipulated multiple clients.

Joel was exposed in a literary scandal, losing his publishing deal and agent.

Ramona faced animal cruelty charges and became the subject of a podcast exposé.

Darren’s theater debut was canceled due to fraud investigations.

Imani’s editing firm issued a public apology and terminated her contract.

And Elizabeth?

She was nominated for a National Book Award.

Her memoir title?

“Chapters They Never Read.”