THE GIRL CALLED KARMA

The text from Andrew lit up my phone screen, and my heart jumped.

I' d spent years as his "friend," his late-night call, secretly hoping this was finally our moment.

He asked me to wear "that coyote ugly thing" he liked, denim shorts and boots, for a night at his downtown condo.

I drove there, heart pounding, ready to be "seen" by him.

But the door swung open to a jeering crowd of his friends, and next to him, recording, was Gabrielle Ross.

Andrew smirked, "Look what the cat dragged in," then claimed I'd "gotten the wrong idea," calling me desperate.

Gabrielle laughed, narrating for her phone, "When the crazy side-chick won' t take a hint."

He tossed a cheap sex toy at my feet, declaring, "Because I' m with Gabrielle now. We' re done."

The video went viral, my reputation crumbled, and my freelance design business vanished overnight.

With no way to pay my father's mounting medical bills, I was desperate.

An agency offered a mere $250,000 for five years of my life, a pittance but my only choice.