More Than Just A Tutor

More Than Just A Tutor

Gavin

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My SAT prep book felt heavy as I approached Jake Peterson' s front porch for our usual Tuesday session. Tutoring was my reliable income, essential for my college fund. The front door stood ajar, and a muffled thumping from upstairs hinted at something unexpected. Suddenly, my vision warped, inundated with glowing, intrusive text: `[Live-Chat Commentary]`. Remarks like `User_DramaQueen77: OMG, is the nerdy girl gonna bust in on them?!` and `User_JashleyFan01: Nooo, don' t ruin the Jashley moment! They' re endgame!` flashed across my sight. My life, apparently, was now a live broadcast for anonymous strangers on the internet. Moments later, Jake emerged, flustered, followed by a smirking blonde I immediately recognized as 'Ashley' , while the chat exploded with comments labeling me 'side character energy' . A chilling 'prophecy' soon appeared: `User_OracleGamer: Bet Jake dumps the tutor for Ashley. Sarah' s gonna lose him AND her cash cow. Sad.` What was this surreal nightmare, and why was my quiet, strategic existence suddenly the subject of relentless, bizarre public judgment from unseen trolls? I wasn' t a character in their made-up drama, yet every practical decision I made, from valuing my paid time to demanding payment for a stolen item, was twisted into a display of 'Ice Queen' or 'Money Grubber' behavior. But through the chaos, a different kind of insight emerged: this invasive commentary, while humiliating, also contained invaluable intel, revealing their malicious schemes before they even started. If my life was now a game show for their entertainment, I decided to become the player who knew all the cheats, turning every snarky comment into my strategic advantage.

Introduction

My SAT prep book felt heavy as I approached Jake Peterson' s front porch for our usual Tuesday session.

Tutoring was my reliable income, essential for my college fund.

The front door stood ajar, and a muffled thumping from upstairs hinted at something unexpected.

Suddenly, my vision warped, inundated with glowing, intrusive text: `[Live-Chat Commentary]`.

Remarks like `User_DramaQueen77: OMG, is the nerdy girl gonna bust in on them?!` and `User_JashleyFan01: Nooo, don' t ruin the Jashley moment! They' re endgame!` flashed across my sight.

My life, apparently, was now a live broadcast for anonymous strangers on the internet.

Moments later, Jake emerged, flustered, followed by a smirking blonde I immediately recognized as 'Ashley' , while the chat exploded with comments labeling me 'side character energy' .

A chilling 'prophecy' soon appeared: `User_OracleGamer: Bet Jake dumps the tutor for Ashley. Sarah' s gonna lose him AND her cash cow. Sad.`

What was this surreal nightmare, and why was my quiet, strategic existence suddenly the subject of relentless, bizarre public judgment from unseen trolls?

I wasn' t a character in their made-up drama, yet every practical decision I made, from valuing my paid time to demanding payment for a stolen item, was twisted into a display of 'Ice Queen' or 'Money Grubber' behavior.

But through the chaos, a different kind of insight emerged: this invasive commentary, while humiliating, also contained invaluable intel, revealing their malicious schemes before they even started.

If my life was now a game show for their entertainment, I decided to become the player who knew all the cheats, turning every snarky comment into my strategic advantage.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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