The Homecoming Queen and the Home-Wrecker

Name: The Homecoming Queen and the Home-Wrecker
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Gavin

Short stories | Completed

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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.

Betrayal CEO Comeback Female-centered Personal growth

Chapter 10

06-25 20:21

Introduction

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.