4

Allie I hadn’t left the bed in two days. Mia’s guest room felt like a cave. The curtains drawn tight, blankets pulled over my head, the world reduced to the soft glow of my phone screen and the ache in my chest that wouldn’t go away. Every time I tried to get up, the memories slammed back: the cake hitting the floor, Logan’s panicked face, that woman’s legs around him. The livestream. The comments. The entire internet watching my life shatter in real time. Food tasted like nothing. Sleep came in fitful bursts filled with nightmares. I just wanted to disappear. A sharp knock on the door made me flinch. “Allie? It’s me.” Mia’s voice, urgent. The door creaked open before I could answer. She flipped on the lamp, the sudden light stabbing my swollen eyes. “You need to get up,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her face was serious, phone already in hand. “Right now. Open Instagram.” I pulled the covers higher. “I don’t want to see it. More hate? More clips? I can’t.” “Allie.” She yanked the blanket down. “Logan’s live. Right now. Tens of thousands watching. You need to see what he’s saying.” My stomach twisted. Logan. The man who’d begged me to hear him out, who’d sent flowers and texts and voicemails promising it was a mistake. I sat up slowly, hair a tangled mess, and grabbed my phone with shaking hands. i********: loaded, and there he was—Logan Pierce, live from what looked like our favorite coffee spot, the one we always tagged in couple posts. The viewer count ticked up: 47,000… 52,000… climbing fast. He looked rough but composed—dark circles under his eyes, hair messy like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. The chat scrolled wildly. “Hey everyone,” Logan started, voice heavy. “I know things have been blowing up online. The last few days have been hell. I didn’t want to do this, but I have to set the record straight. For my mental health. For the truth.” I stared, disbelief freezing me in place. Mia rubbed my back, silent. Logan sighed dramatically, looking straight into the camera. “Allie and I… it wasn’t what it looked like from the outside. She’s a good person, but our relationship turned toxic. She was too controlling and insecure. Always checking my phone, tracking where I was, demanding to know every little thing. I felt trapped, man. Like I couldn’t breathe.” The comments shifted almost instantly. Wait what? Allie was controlling him? Explains a lot. He kept going, eyes earnest. “She’d get mad if I went out with the guys after games. Monitored my messages. It was emotional abuse, honestly. I tried to make it work. I loved her. But I was drowning. That… situation on my birthday? It happened because I felt so trapped. I made a horrible mistake, but I was looking for an escape from the pressure she put on me.” Escape. The word hit like a slap. I remembered late nights waiting for him after games, the way he’d smile and call me his rock. The interviews where I praised him. The cake I had spent hours baking while he was “training.” Old clips started flooding the comments and stories—someone had stitched them together. A video of me waiting outside the arena after a loss, arms crossed, looking impatient. Another of me playfully grabbing his phone during a dinner date, laughing as I pretended to check it. Out of context, they looked damning. See? Obsessive. She was toxic af. Poor Logan. Sponsor mentions popped up in the chat too. Brands that had tagged us together in posts were now quietly removing them. One athletic wear company posted a vague statement about “focusing on positive athlete stories.” Another pulled a joint campaign we’d filmed last month. I watched Logan wipe his eyes. Were those real tears or just for the camera? “I’m taking time to heal. I hope Allie gets the help she needs too. This isn’t about who is to be blamed. It’s about moving forward. Thank you for the support, guys. It means everything.” The livestream ended, but the damage kept rolling. My follower count had plummeted overnight. DMs filled with accusations: How could you treat him like that? Abuser. Fake nice girl. Hashtags trended against me: #AllieToxic, #FreeLogan, #CoupleExposed. I dropped the phone on the bed, staring at the wall. “He’s lying. Mia… he’s destroying me to save himself.” She hugged me tight. “I know. We all know. But the internet doesn’t. They’re eating it up.” Tears slipped down my cheeks again, hot and angry. Two years. Two years of being the supportive girlfriend, smiling through his schedule, building a life that revolved around his dreams. And now this. He’d flipped the script so fast, painting me as the villain while he played the victim. Controlling? I’d planned surprises. Emotional abuse? I’d been the one cheering loudest at every game. My phone buzzed with new notifications, PR people from brands I have worked with, distant friends, even my own family asking what was going on. The world I had carefully built with Logan was crumbling, and he was the one swinging the hammer. I curled back under the covers, but sleep wouldn’t come. Only the echo of his words and the turning tide of public opinion. Logan Pierce wasn’t just cheating on me. He was erasing me. And I had no idea how to fight back.