Page 68 of Shattered Dreams
Good luck, pal.
He's been wearing the same grey sweatpants for three days now. His face is covered in patchy stubble that makes him look older, more worn down than his thirty-two years should allow. There's a hollowness to his entire frame that I've never seen before—like the man who used to command every room he entered has been slowly deflating from the inside out.
He’s losing weight, and despite myself, I want to feed him and tell him to get a fucking grip. But I can’t. He deserves this.
He hasn't spoken to me in forty-eight hours. He hasn't asked me questions or demanded explanations. But he knows exactly what I did and how I did it.
Maybe he’s giving up. Feeling as powerless as I did when he fucked me over.
The texts I leaked to the gossip blogs and feminist media sites came directly from his phone. He never bothered to change his password from our anniversary date—how's that for irony? And maybe that's precisely why he hasn't confronted me about any of this. Maybe he understands that this was never about vengeance.
Annie Collins didn't just break the girl code when she decided to sleep with my husband. She took a fucking blowtorch to it, scattered the ashes to the wind, and then had the audacity to go live on Instagram to cry about heartbreak and betrayal like she was the victim in all of this.
She claimed she didn't know Roman was married, she said she thought we were separated but hadn't announced it publicly yet. That she was just following her heart, chasing true love, all that romantic bullshit that sounds pretty until you realize it's built on a foundation of lies.
What a fucking cunt she is.Wrecking our marriage wasn’t enough—she made out it was in tatters and didn’t exist while she sucked my husband's cock.
I shudder with rage. I still want to gut her like a fucking fish for ever touching what is mine—whatwasmine. But it’s Roman who let her in—it’shimI have to blame.
But she is going to suffer too, because she knew exactly what she was doing, the skanky bitch.
Those text messages I released—those messages exposed the truth in black and fucking white. She knew exactly what she was doing. Our marriage may have been struggling, but itwasn’tover. Sure, maybe it was on its way, but we’d never even had a conversation about it. She knew he had a wife and a daughter at home, and she didn't give a shit. Now the world knows it too.
Annie lost every single sponsorship deal within seventy-two hours of the story breaking. Her luxury skincare brand, the one that paid her six figures to post those perfect morning routine videos, dropped her contract immediately. The protein powder company that plastered her abs across their Instagram feed wiped every trace of her from their campaigns. Even the discount fast-fashion label that used to adore her bubbly personality cut ties with a public statement about "aligning with our values."
She posted a tearful video response two days ago. Black mascara streaked down her cheeks like war paint, and her voice cracked with every word.
"I didn't mean to hurt anyone," she sobbed into the camera, her usual perfect lighting replaced by harsh overhead fluorescents. "I thought he was being honest with me. Please, don't believe everything you read online."
The comments section wasn't kind. Not even a little bit.
Girl, bye.
You knew he was married.
Dirty hoe.
And my personal favourite:
She's not crying for what she did. She's crying because the rent's due.
It turns out influencers without clean reputations don't get to keep luxury high-rise condos with doormen and infinity pools overlooking the city. Last I heard, she's couch surfing or maybe back home with her parents in Ohio. I haven't checked because I don't need to.
I don’t give a fuck.
She's unravelling quietly and completely, and I can't say I feel sorry for the bitch.
Roman is imploding in slow motion, and that's harder to watch than I thought it would be. The bastard destroyed our marriage, but seeing him fall apart still twists something in my chest that I wish I could turn off. The NFL issued their formal statement two days ago, and it was exactly what you'd expect from a corporate entity trying to protect their image—clinical, carefully worded, heavy on condemnation and light on sympathy.
We do not condone violence in any form. We hold our players to the highest standard of professionalism, both on and off the field. Mr. Muller's conduct does not reflect the values of this organization.
They suspended him for four more games without pay. No press conferences. No media appearances. His locker was cleaned out, and his personal items were delivered to our front door in a cardboard box that now sits unopened in ourgarage. His teammates have gone silent on social media—no supportive posts, no words of encouragement. Even the rookies he spent hours mentoring have quietly unfollowed him across all platforms.
The Nike deal that he was so proud of?Dead. The protein drink commercial he filmed just last month won't see the light of day. The local car dealership that used to plaster his face on billboards across the city replaced him with a smiling family of four driving a sensible minivan to soccer practice.
His face used to beeverywherein this damn town. Now it's nowhere.
I hear him pacing at night when he thinks I'm asleep. The creak of the old floorboards in the hallway is familiar—and I know he sits outside our room while I sleep.
