Page 62 of Shattered Dreams
“I said getup.”
He stands slowly, every inch of his tall frame weighed down with guilt. His eyes beg me for something—redemption, maybe. Forgiveness. But he’s not getting either.
I don’t respond. I leave the room and close the door behind me.
In the quiet of the study, I finally let the cold calculation settle in. Roman thinks this is rock bottom?
He has no idea.
I boot up my laptop, fingers already flying across the keys. My contacts from college come to mind—particularly the one who runs that influencer gossip page with a following large enough to wreck someone’s image in less than twenty-four hours. I send her a message:
Got a story for you. I can give you texts—real ones. Screenshots. Proof. Do you want it?
The reply is instant.
Always. Drop it here.
So I do. Texts from Annie to Roman. Screenshots I’d taken when I was wallowing in grief, back when my stomach had been sick and my heart had still wanted to believe it was all a mistake.
Texts like:
She doesn’t need to know.
You’re too hot to be stuck with just one woman.
Let her play house while you play with me.
And the one that twists like a knife every time I read it:
You’re married, not dead. Just leave her.
God, I loved sucking your cock. Does your wife know I swallow every drop? Tell her, please. Tell her I do it better.
She’s playing the victim now, but the whole world needs to see the truth—she was sleeping with a married man, and she knew it. But that’s not what she told the world, is it? While I was crying a fucking ocean over my husband’s betrayal, she was spinning stories about how in love they were, how they couldn’t help it. How sorry she was for me. But these messages show otherwise.
The influencer responds with a shocked emoji, then another message:
Holy shit. You want credit? Or anonymous?
Anonymous,I type.
I want the world to know what Annie really is. But I don’t want her to know it came from me. I want her to wonder. I want her to spiral.
I send another message.
Check her sponsor list. She’s still tagging some of the brands in stories. They won’t want to be associated with this.
By the next morning, the first post is up. A carousel of the worst messages, her handle tagged for visibility. A poll at the end:
Would YOU support a woman who knowingly wrecked a marriage?
The comments explode in real-time. People are calling her a homewrecker. Others tag her sponsors. Screenshots shared across social media.
And I smile.
She’s not just losing followers—she’s haemorrhaging them. Brands start making statements. One cuts ties by lunchtime. Another says they’re "reassessing the partnership." Her rented place in Beverly Hills—the one she flaunted online—goes up for listing by the end of the week.
She posts a story trying to cry, but her fake lashes are still perfect, and she’s got a fucking filter on. The comments are brutal:
