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My Amnesia Prank: His Betrayal, My True Love

My Amnesia Prank: His Betrayal, My True Love

Gavin

5.0
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A minor car crash on the way home, just a fender bender, and that's when a wild idea sparked in my mind. I decided to prank my boyfriend, Michael, by feigning amnesia. "And who are you?" I asked, feigning confusion, waiting for him to play along. Instead, his charming smile faltered, replaced by a calculating glint I'd never seen. He pulled out his phone, dialed his friend Alex, and whispered, "Sarah hit her head. She' s got amnesia. You're Liam, her boyfriend. I'm Mark, your best friend." My breath hitched. Then, I overheard him lower his voice, "Tiffany's already texting me. She' s so much less drama than Sarah, so high-maintenance." My heart hammered with a sickening lurch. I was just a discarded game piece, a convenient escape for him to run off with my own sorority sister. His betrayal was swift and brutal, a public humiliation he orchestrated with chilling ease. But as I played along, Michael' s supposed "pawn," Alex, treated me with an unexpected, gentle kindness that completely contradicted everything Michael had said. He didn't act like someone who found me boring. He saw me, defended me, and his eyes held a depth Michael' s never had. Was this simply a cruel charade, or was there an unexpected truth hidden within this deception? They thought I was a puppet, easily manipulated and rendered clueless. They had no idea. If Michael wanted to play a game, I decided then and there, I would play too – but by my rules, and I would expose every single one of their lies.

Introduction

A minor car crash on the way home, just a fender bender, and that's when a wild idea sparked in my mind.

I decided to prank my boyfriend, Michael, by feigning amnesia.

"And who are you?" I asked, feigning confusion, waiting for him to play along.

Instead, his charming smile faltered, replaced by a calculating glint I'd never seen.

He pulled out his phone, dialed his friend Alex, and whispered, "Sarah hit her head. She' s got amnesia. You're Liam, her boyfriend. I'm Mark, your best friend."

My breath hitched.

Then, I overheard him lower his voice, "Tiffany's already texting me. She' s so much less drama than Sarah, so high-maintenance."

My heart hammered with a sickening lurch.

I was just a discarded game piece, a convenient escape for him to run off with my own sorority sister.

His betrayal was swift and brutal, a public humiliation he orchestrated with chilling ease.

But as I played along, Michael' s supposed "pawn," Alex, treated me with an unexpected, gentle kindness that completely contradicted everything Michael had said.

He didn't act like someone who found me boring.

He saw me, defended me, and his eyes held a depth Michael' s never had.

Was this simply a cruel charade, or was there an unexpected truth hidden within this deception?

They thought I was a puppet, easily manipulated and rendered clueless.

They had no idea.

If Michael wanted to play a game, I decided then and there, I would play too – but by my rules, and I would expose every single one of their lies.

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My final ballet scholarship audition was supposed to be my destiny. Instead, I found myself in a police interrogation room, accused of stealing from a sick girl. My own mother sat beside me, dabbing fake tears, whispering for me to confess to a "moment of weakness" while orchestrating my ruin. They showed me a security photo of a girl who looked exactly like me stuffing cash from a donation box. I denied it, but the overwhelming evidence, coupled with my mother' s performance, painted me as a desperate thief, shattering my ballet dreams and reputation. I couldn' t understand why my mother, the one person who should have supported me, was so determined to destroy my life. For years, she had subtly sabotaged my auditions-a slippery substance on my pointe shoes causing a career-ending injury, a powerful laxative in my "power smoothie" making me miss another crucial tryout. Now, she was pushing me to confess to a crime I didn't commit, driving me to the brink of suicide. Lying in a hospital bed after a desperate overdose, a chilling truth clicked into place: my grandmother' s multi-million dollar trust fund, accessible at 21 or upon "significant professional success," would go to my mother if I died or was deemed incompetent. It was never about my ballet; it was about the inheritance, and every "accident" was a calculated attempt to break me. In that moment, I knew I had to fight back, not as a victim, but with every fiber of my being.

The Homecoming Queen and the Home-Wrecker

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Eleven years. I dedicated them all to Wesley Scott, sacrificing my architect dreams to support his political ambitions. After a decade of being his unassuming small-town Texas girl, he finally proposed, not out of love, I suspected, but for his political image. Then, an anonymous email arrived with a photo: Wesley and his childhood friend, Gabrielle, smiling, holding a deed to a luxury Austin condo, purchased jointly under their names. Beneath it, Gabrielle' s chilling message: "Coming home for good." Wesley dismissed it as "just a favor," his casual use of "Gabby" a slap in the face. But the next day, the building manager casually confirmed Gabrielle was the primary owner, and I, his fiancée, was merely "the friend," a temporary guest. That night, at Gabrielle's welcome dinner, Wesley sat beside her, radiating ownership, as everyone toasted them as "the perfect couple." Then, a friend goaded them into a kiss, and Wesley, playing to the crowd, gave Gabrielle a soft, lingering kiss, a gesture of intimacy he never showed me. All eyes turned to me, expecting tears, a scene, but I just smiled. "If Gabrielle wants him," I said, my voice clear and calm, "she can have him." He dragged me out, furious, but a later anonymous message, a screenshot of their secret Instagram post-"To our future!" and his reply, "Whatever you want, you get. Always"-extinguished any lingering hope. It was the same day he'd asked me to move in, calling it "our first real step." His betrayal culminated when a mob of HOA women, spurred by Gabrielle, publicly assaulted me at the condo, and Wesley stood by, calculating the optics of defending me. I collapsed, humiliated, only to later see his reply on the HOA Facebook chat, throwing me under the bus: "The owner on the deed is the one who matters." He had confirmed I was nothing, a squatter to his entire world. When he abandoned me in the hospital for Gabrielle's fake allergic reaction, I knew. It was over. Three days later, at our lavish engagement party, instead of our romantic slideshow, I played the video of their kiss, the condo deed, and his damning words on the jumbo screens. His political career ignited in a glorious fireball. "Why, Wesley?" I told him calmly when he screamed down the phone. "I was just making way for the real couple. After all, the owner on the deed is the one who matters." I hung up and blocked him, and everyone from that life. I was free to build my own.

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