There’s no caption, no context, no explanation that he’s declared me as his girlfriend—not because he actually likes me, but because he simply wants to fuck with me and piss me off. Even worse, it's very fucking clear I'm naked, which means he took it the night he chained me to the flagpole after I fell asleep, considering that's the only time I've been naked in his bed.
A slimy feeling slithers across my bones, like venomous snakes coiling around branches, and tears burn the backs of my eyes.
He manipulated my sleeping body to look as if I’m willingly cuddling with him and then posted it on social media to show hisfourmillionfucking followers.
The post has over eight hundred thousand likes. My brain screams at me not to, yet my thumb clicks on the comments anyway.
Is that Charlotte D’Amour???!
A comment responds to them, saying:Heard she changed it to Reverie Adams.
Noooooo, the man of my dreams is taken? Lucky bitch.
DREAD I LOVE YOU PLS MARRY ME INSTEAD I’LL BE SO GOOD TO U.
Oh my God, someone please don’t gaslight me when I say that’s Charlotte D’Amour.
Another commenter responds to them:Why does everyone think it's her just because she's blonde? That's literally the last person he'd date.
To which the original commenter responds:I literally said not to gaslight me.
I would break my neck giving you the best head of your life, just let meprove it king
I vibrate as I close out of the app and tuck my phone into my back pocket. A new kind of awareness surrounds me, and with every sly glance and whisper, it’s a needle prick against every one of my nerves.
For reasons I can’t quite pinpoint, it feels like more of a violation than when he fucked me.
It’s one thing to manipulate my body against me when it’s just the two of us, but it’s another to do so and then show the entire fucking world.
I should’ve known he’d do something like this. I should’ve known he’d see my rejection as a challenge and try to teach me a lesson.
I don’t know why the fuck I never considered for a single second he’d take it this far, though. I figured he’d pull something to make it known across campus, butsocial media?
He’s not just claiming me in front of the world, but myfather.
It wouldn’t surprise me if there’re already articles posted about it.
The man would attract attention about his first public girlfriend anyway, but to call the daughter of his mother’s murderer his girlfriend? That’s a whole new level of fucked up, and the media is going to eat it up.
Pride glues my ass to the seat for the rest of class, though my cheeks are on fire, an anxious sweat coats my back, and I repeatedly swallow down the vomit bubbling at the base of my throat for the remaining thirty minutes.
The second the professor wraps up, I’m bolting out of my seat and toward the door. I keep my head tucked down, letting the thin curtain of bangs hide my eyes as I quickly make my way out of the building.
My head is loud and in disarray the entire way to my car and on the drive back to my new dorm. There are a million things I think about, but shock and denial keep them from being coherent.
So when I walk into my dorm, I don’t even process what I’m seeing. It reflects the chaos in my brain, and for several moments, it feels exactly how it should be: messy, broken, and everything ripped to shreds.
But eventually, clarity sets in, and then, slowly, realization.
The room is destroyed, all my belongings strewn across the floor. My clothes, shoes, bedding, school papers, textbooks. Just… everything.
My mouth drops, incapable of doing anything but stare through tear-filled vision at the wreckage.
All those jumbled thoughts come to a screeching halt, and then I go numb. Just completely, utterly, implicitly, fucking.
Numb.
My vision tunnels as I pull out my phone from my back pocket and call Sable.
