I thought Valentine’s Day could save my relationship. So I booked a luxury hotel—marble bathrooms, rooftop pools, chocolate-covered strawberries waiting on the bed. $3,000 total. Scott, my boyfriend, and I had agreed to split it.
“Don’t worry, babe. I got you. Just put it on your card for now,” he said.
I should’ve known better. But I was desperate.
Our relationship had been falling apart for months. Scott barely texted. Barely called. When we were together, he was glued to his phone, liking other girls’ posts, commenting on fitness models’ pictures. I was the only one making an effort. I thought maybe a romantic weekend would remind him why we fell in love.
Friday evening, we arrived at the hotel. The valet took our bags. The lobby smelled of jasmine and expensive candles. Everything was perfect.
The room was stunning: floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a king-sized bed scattered with rose petals, champagne chilling in a silver bucket.
“This is perfect, right?” I said, smiling.
Scott barely looked up. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Scott, can you put your phone down for like five minutes?”
He sighed and set it on the nightstand. “Happy?”
“Thrilled!”
We went to dinner at the hotel restaurant. I ordered salmon, he ordered steak. Silence. I tried: “So… how’s work been?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Yeah, Amy. Fine.”
“Are you okay? You seem distant.”
“I’m fine. Can we just eat?”
I poked at my food. This wasn’t the Valentine’s Day I imagined.
The next morning, I woke to Scott sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window.
“Scott? What’s wrong?”
He didn’t turn. “I need space.”
“Space? We’re literally on vacation.”
“I mean… I need to figure some things out.”
“Figure what out?”
Finally, he faced me. “I don’t think this is working.”
By evening, he’d made up his mind. He broke up with me. Over text. While sitting in the hotel lobby.
I was in the bathroom, trying to hold myself together, when my phone buzzed:
“I think we should end this. I just need to be alone right now.”
I ran out, mascara running. “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 staying here for the weekend. You should probably go.”
I froze. “You want me to leave? I paid for this room!”
“Yeah, I’ll pay you back. I said I would.”
“When?”
“Soon. Can you just go? I need some time.”
I packed my things. Threw my clothes into my suitcase. Scott didn’t help. He just scrolled through his phone. I cried all the way home.
The next day, my phone started buzzing with alerts from my bank:
Hotel charge: $87—room service.
Hotel charge: $135—room service.
Hotel charge: $220—spa services.
I called Scott. No answer. Straight to voicemail. I called the hotel.
“Hi, I’m calling about charges to my card. I booked room 412.”
“Yes, ma’am. It looks like the guest has been ordering quite a bit: room service, bar tabs, spa appointments.”
I screamed into a pillow. Scott was using me.
A week later, the final bill posted. Almost $6,000. Not $3K. Not $4K. $6K. Multiple room service orders, tasting menus, champagne, whiskey, massages—a couple’s spa package.
Wait… couples?
I called him. Blocked. Texted. Left on read. Then he blocked me. He hadn’t just dumped me—he’d planned it. Used me and vanished.
I drove to his apartment, ready to demand my money back. But I stopped cold.
A woman’s clothes on the staircase. A pair of red heels. A lacy black top. A purse I didn’t recognize.
The bedroom door cracked open. I heard laughter.
“You’re terrible!” the woman said.
“I know. But she paid for everything. Got rid of her at the perfect time,” Scott laughed.
“What if she finds out?”
“She won’t. I blocked her. She’ll get over it eventually. Women always do.”
I froze. Not from heartbreak—mostly from fury.
I turned around, drove home, and had a better idea.
I started boxing up Scott’s things: hoodies he left, his toothbrush, his stupid gaming controller, sneakers he’d been “looking for” for months.
Then I found his stash of expensive products: designer cologne, luxury skincare kits, razors with gold handles. All still in packaging.
Right. Scott was an influencer. Brands sent him free stuff in exchange for reviews. He had 20,000 followers, sponsorships worth thousands. He bragged constantly.
And he always left Instagram logged in on my devices.
I smiled.
I grabbed my iPad, opened Instagram. Never logged out.
First, I posted a picture of the $6K hotel bill. Caption:
“Just finished the BEST week of my life at a 5-star hotel downtown! Used my girlfriend’s money to live like a king. Lobster, champagne, couples’ massages (with my NEW girl, not the old one lol). Cheers to being single and smart! 🤷🏻♂️😈💸💰 #NoRegrets #GotRidOfDeadWeight #LivingMyBestLife #SorryNotSorry”
Then I went through his sponsored posts: cologne, razors, skincare, fitness supplements, watches. I wrote reviews. Brutal ones.
Cologne: “Honestly, this smells like expired pickle juice mixed with regret and bad decisions. Gave me a headache for three days. My date walked away. Do NOT recommend.”
Razor: “Left me looking like I got into a fight with a lawnmower. Patchy, bloody, embarrassing. Zero stars.”
Skincare: “My skin broke out worse than a teenage acne commercial. Save your money.”
Fitness: “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. Already forgot the last one’s name lol. 💞 #UpgradeComplete #NewBeginnings”
Comments rolled in:
“Bro, what happened?”
“You sound unhinged!”
“Congratulations! You’ve blown up your career!”
Scott called. I ignored him, poured wine, and watched his follower count drop—hundreds at a time.
The next morning, pounding at my door. Scott, red-faced, phone in hand.
“What did you do?!”
“Good morning to you too,” I said.
“I forgot I was still logged into Instagram. 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!”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate? Amy, you destroyed my career!”
“You destroyed my bank account. My trust. My Valentine’s Day. My dignity.”
“THIS IS DIFFERENT! I HAD DEALS!”
“And I had $6K charged to my card while you were screwing someone else!”
He was speechless. I handed him a box of his things.
“Take your stuff and get out. Oh, and log out of all devices!”
His phone rang again. Another angry client. Scott scrambled, yelling into the phone.
I closed the door.
That afternoon, I scrolled Instagram. Scott deleted the posts—but it was too late. Screenshots everywhere. People sharing, laughing, roasting him. Followers down 5,000. Brand deals gone. Reputation in ruins.
Some heartbreaks end in tears.
Mine? Ended with cancelled deals, screaming clients, and a very satisfying log out of all devices.