I honestly believed Valentine’s Day might save my relationship with my boyfriend, Scott.

So I went all out—I booked a luxury hotel. Marble bathrooms. A rooftop pool. Chocolate-covered strawberries waiting on crisp white sheets.

The total came to nearly $3,000.
We agreed to split it.

Scott smiled and said, “Don’t worry, babe. Just put it on your card for now. I’ll send you my half.”

I should have known better.
But I was desperate.

Our relationship had been unraveling for months. Scott barely texted, barely called. When we were together, his attention lived on his phone—liking other women’s photos, commenting on fitness models, scrolling endlessly. I was the only one still trying.

So I convinced myself a romantic weekend would fix things. Remind him of us. Of what we used to be.

We arrived on Friday evening. The lobby smelled like jasmine and expensive candles. The staff treated us like royalty. The room was stunning—floor-to-ceiling windows, rose petals on the bed, champagne on ice.

“This is perfect, right?” I asked.

Scott glanced up from his phone. “Yeah. Sure.”

At dinner, silence sat between us like a third guest. I tried to talk. He answered in single words. When I asked if something was wrong, he sighed and told me to just eat.

That night, I cried quietly into the hotel pillow.

The next morning, Scott sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the window.

“I need space,” he said.

Space. On a Valentine’s getaway.

By evening, he had decided. He broke up with me by text, while sitting in the hotel lobby.

Then he looked at me and said, “I’m going to stay here the rest of the weekend. You should probably leave.”

I reminded him I had paid for the room.

He shrugged. “I’ll pay you back. Just… go.”

So I packed alone. He didn’t help. Didn’t even look up from his phone when I walked out.

I cried the entire drive home.

The next day, my banking app began lighting up.

Room service.
Bar tabs.
Spa charges.

Again and again.

I called Scott. No answer.
I called the hotel. They told me the card on file—my card—would continue to be charged until checkout.

A week later, the final bill posted.

Almost $6,000.

That’s when I noticed a charge for a couples’ spa package.

Couples.

My stomach dropped.

He hadn’t just dumped me—he had planned it.

I drove to his apartment, furious and shaking. But when I arrived, I stopped cold.

Women’s clothes on the stairs.
Red heels.
A purse I didn’t recognize.

I heard laughter through the cracked bedroom door.

Scott’s voice: “She paid for everything. I dumped her at the perfect time.”

Another woman laughed. “What if she finds out?”

“She won’t. I blocked her. She’ll get over it.”*

That’s when my heartbreak turned into rage.

I didn’t confront them.
I left.

Because I had a better idea.

At home, I started packing Scott’s things—and that’s when I found it.

Boxes of luxury products. Cologne. Skincare. Razors. All brand new.

I remembered: Scott was an influencer. Companies sent him free products for glowing reviews. Sponsorships. Paid posts. His pride and joy.

And then I remembered something else.

He never logged out of Instagram on my iPad.

I opened the app.

First post: a photo of the $6,000 hotel bill.
Caption: “Best week ever! Used my girlfriend’s money to live like a king. Champagne, spa days, and a new girl. Sometimes you gotta use people to get ahead. No regrets.”

Then I went through his sponsored posts.

And rewrote the reviews.

Cologne? “Smells like regret and expired pickles.”
Razor? “Left my face looking like a crime scene.”
Skincare? “Broke me out so badly I needed concealer for weeks.”
Supplement? “Tasted like sadness and gave me cramps.”

I hit post on every one.

Then one final selfie from his camera roll:
“New girlfriend already! Forgot the last one’s name.”

The comments exploded.
Followers vanished.
Brands panicked.

Then my phone rang.

Scott.

I didn’t answer.

By morning, he was pounding on my door.

“You ruined me!” he yelled. “Brands dropped me. Some are suing!”

I smiled. “You ruined yourself when you used me.”

His phone rang again—one of his sponsors screaming through the speaker.

He turned pale.

I handed him a box of his things.
“Take your stuff. And next time? Log out of all devices.”

I closed the door.

That afternoon, Scott deleted the posts.

Too late.

Screenshots were everywhere.

He lost thousands of followers.
All his brand deals.
His reputation.

And me?

I sat on my couch, eating ice cream, watching karma work faster than I ever could.

Some heartbreaks end in tears.

Mine ended in cancelled contracts, angry sponsors…
and a very satisfying log out of all devices.