“My Friends Bet I Couldn’t Do Better Than You—I’m Just Proving Them Wrong,” She Said With A Smug Little Smile After I Caught Her Perched On Another Man’s Lap. I Didn’t Yell. I Didn’t Beg. I Just Looked At Her And Said, “Prove This Too.” Then I Took One Photo, Sent It To Her Parents With, “I Thought You Should See This,” And Walked Out. A Minute Later, My Phone Blew Up. She Was Calling In A Panic—Because Her Dad Had Already Opened The Message.

The normalcy of it was its own kind of anesthetic. By 10:00 a.m., curiosity—cold and clinical—got the better of me. I needed to assess the fallout, not for emotional gratification, but for situational awareness, like checking the weather after a storm warning.

I went into my phone settings and, with deliberate care, temporarily unblocked Chloe’s number for a second. Nothing happened. Then the screen exploded.

A torrent of notifications cascaded down—missed calls, voicemail alerts, text message after text message, a frantic, chaotic scroll of desperation and rage. The first one had come in at 11:37 p.m. last night: Chloe, 11:37 p.m., What did you do?

Chloe, 11:41 p.m., My dad just called me. He saw that. Alex, answer your phone.

Chloe, 11:53 p.m., Call him right now and tell him it was a joke. A prank. Tell him we were filming a stupid skit for TikTok or something.

Chloe, 12:15 a.m., He’s not answering my calls now. This isn’t funny. Chloe, 12:48 a.m., My card just got declined at the bar.

What the hell did you say to him? I scrolled, dispassionate, and the tone shifted as the night wore on: Chloe, 1:22 a.m., Jared was just a joke. It meant nothing.

You know how my friends are. You’re taking this way too seriously. Chloe, 2:05 a.m., I’m at the apartment.

Where are you? We need to talk. Chloe, 3:11 a.m., You’re trying to ruin my life.

My dad manages my trust fund. He’s talking about making me learn responsibility. This is your fault.

Chloe, 4:00 a.m., Alex. Please, please just apologize to him. Tell him we’re back together.

Tell him it was staged. I’ll do anything. The final text was from an hour ago: Chloe, 8:57 a.m., Answer me or I’m coming to find you.

There were seven voicemails. I put the phone on speaker, poured a glass of water from the bathroom tap, and listened. Voicemail 1 — 11:45 p.m.

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