When Love Became A Weapon

Ola Wilde

Modern | Completed

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I sat in the front row of the theater, my hand in my fiancé' s, waiting for the premiere of the true-crime podcast he' d been consulting on. But when the host' s voice filled the room, it wasn' t telling the story of how I survived a brutal kidnapping-it was accusing me of faking it for attention. And the "anonymous source" who provided my private therapy tapes was the man sitting right next to me. Dr. Erik Nichols wasn't just the psychiatrist who "saved" me; he was the mole who handed my darkest traumas to his ex-girlfriend for a viral hit. On stage, they played my weeping confessions, edited to sound like manipulation. The audience turned on me, jeering at the "Girl Who Cried Wolf." Erik grabbed my arm, whispering that this public humiliation was just "exposure therapy" for my own good. I was drowning in panic until a booming voice cut through the crowd. "Let her go." FBI Agent Ewing Oconnor, the man who actually found me in that cabin years ago, stepped onto the stage with his badge raised. He didn't just rescue me from the mob; he handed me the weapon to fight back. Now, I' m not just the survivor. I' m the plaintiff, and I' m coming for everything they have.

Betrayal Revenge Comeback Revenge Personal growth

Chapter 10

01-06 22:18

Chapter 1

I sat in the front row of the theater, my hand in my fiancé' s, waiting for the premiere of the true-crime podcast he' d been consulting on.

But when the host' s voice filled the room, it wasn' t telling the story of how I survived a brutal kidnapping-it was accusing me of faking it for attention.

And the "anonymous source" who provided my private therapy tapes was the man sitting right next to me.

Dr. Erik Nichols wasn't just the psychiatrist who "saved" me; he was the mole who handed my darkest traumas to his ex-girlfriend for a viral hit.

On stage, they played my weeping confessions, edited to sound like manipulation.

The audience turned on me, jeering at the "Girl Who Cried Wolf."

Erik grabbed my arm, whispering that this public humiliation was just "exposure therapy" for my own good.

I was drowning in panic until a booming voice cut through the crowd.

"Let her go."

FBI Agent Ewing Oconnor, the man who actually found me in that cabin years ago, stepped onto the stage with his badge raised.

He didn't just rescue me from the mob; he handed me the weapon to fight back.

Now, I' m not just the survivor.

I' m the plaintiff, and I' m coming for everything they have.

Chapter 1

Hannah Eaton POV:

The moment the familiar voice twisted my deepest pain into a lie, I knew my life was over, not by kidnappers, but by the man I loved.

Blaire Francis stood on the brightly lit stage, a predatory smile plastered across her glamorous face. Her true crime podcast, "The Girl Who Cried Wolf," was about to launch its finale. This was her moment. She had clawed her way back from the brink of obscurity, desperate for a viral hit. Her ambition was a black hole, sucking everything into its orbit.

But I never imagined it would suck me in.

I sat in the opulent theater, the velvet seats soft beneath me, the air thick with anticipation. Erik, my fiancé, sat beside me, his hand warm over mine. He was Dr. Erik Nichols, the renowned trauma psychiatrist who had "saved" me all those years ago after the Lakeside Kidnapping. He was my rock, my healer. Or so I thought.

The giant screen flickered to life. A chilling re-enactment of my abduction played out, but something was wrong. The details were skewed. My fear was downplayed. My captors, the terrifying young men who had held me for weeks, were portrayed as misunderstood youths.

Then, Blaire' s voice, silky and insidious, narrated over the scene. "Was Hannah Eaton a victim, or a masterful manipulator who turned a desperate situation into a payday and a spotlight?"

A cold dread spread through me. It was like watching a car crash, knowing it was your car, but being powerless to stop it. They were using my story. They were twisting my trauma.

The podcast went on, slicing and dicing my past. They painted me as a fragile, attention-seeking girl who fabricated parts of her ordeal for sympathy and financial gain. The kidnappers, whom I had testified against, were presented as unwitting participants in a scheme I orchestrated. It was a grotesque distortion. The audio clips they interwove... I recognized my own voice, but it was manipulated. Edited. My raw, vulnerable therapy sessions, the ones I had shared only with Erik, were being replayed. My journals, filled with my darkest fears and most intimate thoughts, were quoted out of context, twisted into damning evidence against me.

A wave of nausea hit me. Erik squeezed my hand, but his gaze was fixed on the screen, a strange flicker in his eyes. Pride? Guilt? I couldn't tell.

Blaire' s image filled the screen again, now beside a framed photo of me from the time of the kidnapping, doctored to make me look sly, not scared. "What if the real story was far more complex? What if the 'girl who cried wolf' wasn't crying at all, but rather, orchestrating the entire narrative?"

The crowd murmured. Some looked intrigued, some disgusted. My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn' t just a story. This was my life.

Blaire then introduced Erik, calling him her "invaluable source." She praised his "unwavering dedication to truth" and his "courage in bringing clarity to a deeply misunderstood case." Erik, my fiancé, the man who promised to protect me, walked onto that stage, bathed in the applause of people who believed I was a liar. He smiled, a confident, charming smile, and hugged Blaire. They shared a look-a look that spoke of shared history, of an intimacy I had never truly shared with him. It was a dagger to my chest.

The applause roared. It was a wall of sound, pressing in on me, suffocating me. People were cheering for the destruction of my truth. For the discrediting of my pain.

I stood up, my legs wobbly. Erik turned, concern etched on his face. He mouthed, Hannah, what are you doing?

The host, caught off guard by my sudden movement, stammered, "Do we have a question from the audience?"

I ignored Erik' s silent pleading, his eyes wide, a warning mixed with a desperate plea. He knew. He had to know. My hand reached out, trembling, for the microphone offered by an usher.

"Yes," I said, my voice surprisingly steady, though it felt like shattered glass. I looked directly at Erik, then at Blaire. "I have a question."

My gaze burned into Erik's, challenging him. He became pale, a ghostly white.

Blaire, ever the quick-thinker, intervened smoothly. "Please, ma'am, state your question. But I assure you, our investigation was thorough." She glanced at Erik, then back at me, a flicker of triumph in her eyes. "Every piece of evidence, every detail, was meticulously vetted."

"My question," I repeated, my voice rising, "is how you can claim this... this fiction... is the truth?" I paused, letting my full name hang in the air, a name that once brought sympathy, now brought suspicion. "My name is Hannah Eaton. And I am the girl you' re talking about."

Erik' s face went even paler, visible agony twisting his features. Blaire, however, just tilted her head, a confident smirk playing on her lips. "Ah, Ms. Eaton. We understand this might be difficult for you. But we stand by our findings. Dr. Nichols, here, provided invaluable insight and materials that allowed us to finally uncover the true narrative." She turned to Erik, her hand briefly touching his arm, a possessive gesture. Their eyes met again, a secret understanding passing between them.

Erik, caught in the spotlight, swallowed hard, his gaze flicking from Blaire to me. He forced a stiff nod, a silent agreement to Blaire' s words, a public betrayal. Then, his eyes locked with mine, a desperate, silent message: Don't do this. Please. For us.

I scoffed, a raw, humorless sound. "Truth? You call this truth?" My voice, though quiet, cut through the sudden hush. "You wouldn't know the truth if it bit you."