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His Public Shame

Chapter 3 

Word Count: 977    |    Released on: 04/07/2025

egarding a violation of the Student Code of Conduct." My hands were shaking so badly I ha

d leather-bound books. He didn' t look at me when I came i

ly congratulated me when I won the freshmen art priz

' ve seen the video. I' ve read the forum p

"Westview University prides itself on the character of its students. This... b

pleaded, my voice cracking. "He' s lying. I didn

said flatly, as if reading from a script. "He says you' ve been obsessed with him and he

ice rose, a note of hysteria creeping

nts seems... less plausible. What is plausible is that this in

is chair. "The Alistair Foundation has with

verything. It was a prestigious, paid position at on

"Please, you can'

ne final. "They don' t want to be ass

nwanted, painful slideshow

, all clumsy limbs and a goofy grin, before he became the chiseled

promised that once we got to college, things would be different, that he' d be re

cret, every promise. It was all a lie. A l

y a calculating sociopath. The sweet memories

the reality was this cold, sterile office where my future

orld felt muffled, distant. I was walking

hlo

nce sat and talked for hours about our dreams. He looked... re

p," he said, his voice soft and lo

omach twisting with a toxic

o me," I said,

way. "I know things are a mess right now. But it doesn' t have to be this wa

me, humiliating me. He was blaming it on peer p

joke," I said, the words f

everyone it was a misunderstanding. That we' re together. If we' re

ation. I' ll tell them we' re serious. We can still h

The boy I had put on a pedestal for years

out. He wasn' t offering love; he was offering a public relations strat

d good, shattered into a million pieces. It didn't just crack; it disintegrated, turnin

on him and walked away, leaving him standing und

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His Public Shame
His Public Shame
“The sweet scent of my boyfriend' s cologne filled the hotel room, a comforting blend as I watched Ryan sleep beside me. But my perfect moment shattered when his phone lit up, revealing a group chat confessing he' d just "bagged the quiet art chick" and describing me as a mere "mission accomplished." My stomach churned as I scrolled, finding a picture of me, asleep, and his chilling message: "Not as innocent as she looks, boys. Played hard to get for years, but she caved pretty easy tonight." Then, the ultimate horror-a private, intimate video of us, shared with the caption: "Proof. She was all over me." The sweet smell suffocated me, every word a fresh stab of humiliation, and the video a violation that left me breathless. I fled, scrubbing at my skin, but his scent, his touch, the memory felt like an indelible stain. The next day, the video was everywhere, plastered across the university forum, labeling me a "slut." Ryan, the master manipulator, had already twisted the narrative, portraying himself as the victim. I lost everything: my dorm, my internship, and worst of all, my own mother disowned me, slapping me publicly. The ultimate betrayal came when I discovered his co-conspirator: my stepsister, Jessica, who gleefully confessed to orchestrating my public downfall. With nothing left to lose, I made a promise to myself: I would expose them, not for revenge, but for the truth. My chance came at Ryan's birthday party, where I went live on social media. "I' m not here to wish you well, Ryan," I announced, the camera capturing his panicked face. "I' m here to give you the birthday present you deserve. The truth."”