Desired by All and He Threw Away 78

Taylor’s POV 

The truth hides in quiet corners and I have learned how to listen for it. 

The cafe is small barely six tables pressed between a dusty antique bookstore and a nail salon that smells faintly of acetone. 

inside the air hums with the low murmur of espresso machines and the bittersweet scent of roasted beans and cinnamon.its the kind of place where people meet to whisper not shout. 

i spot him in the corner–Dylan’s old friend Miles.his cap is pulled low collar turned up like he is trying to vanish into the shadows.he looks exactly how guilt should look–red hollow twitchy. 

his fingers tap an uneven rhythm against his coffee cup eyes darting toward the window every few seconds. 

( you came alone?” he asks voice low. 

“Yes.” i slide into the chair across from him. ” you said you had something to show me.” 

he exhales shakily glancing over his shoulder before pulling out his phone. “i shouldnt even be doing this,” he mutters.” but someone needs to know what really happened.” 

when he slides the phone across the table i hesitate.my fingertips hover over the cracked screen pulse thudding in my wrist. Then I press play. 

Ella’s voice spills through the tiny speaker soft almost tender but with a venom that coats every syllable. 

“dont pretend you are done with me Dylan. You made promises.you think you can just walk away after everything i did for you? You owe me.” 

“And if you don’t pay up, I’ll make sure the world knows what you’re really like in bed–about your lie and the people’s lives you have destroyed,.” 

My stomach tightens. The Ella i saw–the broken, crying woman on that livestream–feels galaxies away from this version. 

The next recording cuts in with Dylan’s voice–low, mocking, laced with cruelty. 

“Please. You were just something to pass the time. You loved playing victim. Guess it pays better than being honest. Go ahead, tell your story–nobody’s gonna believe a washed–up attention rich junkie.” 

The words hit like gravel in my chest. 

Miles unlocks the screen again, scrolling through messages “It gets worse,” he murmurs. 

He’s right. 

paragraphs of manipulation blur across my screen endless columns of text their voices clawing at each other.Ella’s messages ricochet between honeyed promises and razor edged threats apology bleeding into accusation.Dylan’s replies ooze a colder poison sharp calculated each sentence a tightening fist. “You’re nothing without me. You want fame? Earn it. If you leak this, I’ll bury you. 

Heat surges up my throat as I scroll faster, my pulse a frantic drumbeat. Lies coil through the messages like barbed wire.exploitation masquerades as tenderness.every screenshot feels like lifting another board from a rotting floor the stench worsening the deeper i go. 

across from me Miles watches- shoulders rigid coffee untouched and cooling beside his hand. “They both used people,” he murmurs, voice flat as worn paper. “But Dylan. he liked it.Ella just figured out how to breathe in the 

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+25 Banus 

wreckage.” 

i dont notice the tremor in my hands until the phone clatters softly onto the table.my reflection stares back from the black screen–eyes stretched wide jaw locked tight someone i dont quite recognize. ” how long have you had this?” 

“Too long.” his mouth twists not quite a smile not quite a wound. “I kept hoping someone would believe me without evidence. But no one did. Dylan was untouchable. Ella was unstable. And I got tired of deciding which lie hurt less.” 

the truth settles between us with a weight of its own–dense breathing impossible to look away from. 

“thank you,” i whisper though it grates in my throat like rusted metal. gratitude feels misplaced wrong because every truth hes handed me slices deeper than the last. 

Outside, the city moves like nothing’s changed.but inside me something fractures. 

that night i sit in the dark laptop screen glowing against the silence.my room smells faintly of coffee and rain- the window left cracked open to the storm outside.My fingers hover above the trackpad. The folder of evidence waits, patient and damning. 

Screenshots. Voice notes. Timestamps.threads of deceit woven together like a noose. 

my reflection stares back from the screen–tired hard edged unfamiliar.the girl who once believed the internet could tell truth is long gone. 

I take a breath that scrapes my throat raw. Then I begin to upload. 

One file. Then another. 

I don’t edit. I don’t explain. I just arrange them in order, piece by piece, the way Miles showed me. The puzzle builds itself–ugly, undeniable. 

When it’s ready, I move to the caption box. My fingers tremble once, then steady. 

Three words. 

Here’s the truth. 

No tags. No names. No anger. Just evidence. 

I hit post. 

The silence lasts maybe a minute–one small heartbeat of calm before the storm arrives. 

Then the notifications begin. 

Pings. Dings. Flashes. 

The internet catches fire. 

Within hours, Dylan’s name is everywhere–splashed across screens, whispered through comment threads, dissected in real time. Notifications explode like fireworks 

Screenshots multiply–his texts, his tone, his carefully curated mask–torn apart by strangers hungry for truth or blood, maybe both. Disbelief curdles into fury, fury into a kind of grim satisfaction. 

The same people who once called him “football star or the next Aiden Kincaid” now claw at him with sharpened words. 

By nightfall, #DylanExposed burns through every platform Sponsors ghost him. Collaborations vanish overnight, 

Chapter 28 

+25 Bonus 

statements drop like brittle apologies” “We’re reevaluating our partnerships.” 

Clips from old interviews resurface, his sly smirks replayed in slow motion, his careless cruelty finally laid bare for what it was.the world hears it now the venom beneath the velvet voice. 

– 

its pandemonium its loud ruthless and unstoppable. 

And then Ella strikes. 

Her post cuts through the noise like a knife through silk–a carousel of screenshots, leaked contracts, voice memos that hum with the sound of betrayal. Evidence. Receipts. Truth wrapped in digital proof. 

Her caption lands like a punch: He used me, but he used all of you too. 

The internet convulses. Within hours, headlines bloom like wildfire.every outlet feeds on it twisting, amplifying turning vengeance into justice until no one can tell the difference. 

i watch from my screen as it all collapses the empire he built from charm and deceit imploding one post at a time. Brick by brick. Click by click. 

By week’s end, Dylan’s gone. His accounts wiped clean, sponsors issuing sterile condolences, collaborators erasing traces of him from their pages. Even his fan pages fade to black. 

It’s eerie–how quickly a person can vanish when the world decides they should. 

And yet, victory doesn’t feel like victory. 

It feels quiet. Cold. 

the glow of my laptop screen reflects off the empty coffee mug beside me. the air smells faintly metallic like rain on concrete.outside the city hums as though nothing has happened. 

Dylan is gone erased. Ella barely survives, though her little victory tastes like vengeance. And Aiden… 

Aiden’s name still floats in the ashes.his silence- whether its forced or chosen- hangs in the air like smoke that wont clear.the world may have moved on from him but i havent. 

i close the laptop and sit there staring into the dark. 

justice isnt clean. It never is. 

i exposed the truth but even now the echoes of their lies linger soft persistent whispering through the silence. and i know deep down that some stains dont wash away with proof. 

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