When The Tesla Called

When The Tesla Called

Gavin

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The automated call from the Tesla came at 10 PM, shattering the illusion of my perfect life with Ryan. "A collision has been detected. The registered owner, Ryan Scott, may be unresponsive." I rushed to the ER, dread gripping my heart, only to find him on a gurney, pale and sweaty. But he wasn't alone; Sylvia, his brother's widow, was clutching his hand, looking disheveled and frantic. Then, my childhood friend, Dr. Andrew Lester, delivered the chilling truth: "There was no collision. Mr. Scott experienced... an acute allergic reaction. Anaphylaxis." A severe latex allergy, exacerbated by "strenuous physical activity." The words hung in the air, heavy and obscene; the pieces clicked into place with sickening finality. It wasn't a car crash. It was sex. In his car. For seven years, I had downplayed my family's wealth, my education, my ambitions, all to prop up the myth of the "self-made" Ryan Scott. For this? His blatant lies the next morning, about "bad shellfish" and needing me to pick up his impounded Tesla, were a cruel joke. The car reeked of stale champagne and cheap perfume, brazenly displaying a high-heeled shoe and a torn silk blouse; his contempt for me was physically manifested. But their sick game was about to change. When Andrew, my childhood friend, quietly appeared at the impound lot, I made my decision. "The marriage. With your family. I told my father yes." My path was set: cold, clear, and utterly decisive.

Introduction

The automated call from the Tesla came at 10 PM, shattering the illusion of my perfect life with Ryan.

"A collision has been detected. The registered owner, Ryan Scott, may be unresponsive."

I rushed to the ER, dread gripping my heart, only to find him on a gurney, pale and sweaty.

But he wasn't alone; Sylvia, his brother's widow, was clutching his hand, looking disheveled and frantic.

Then, my childhood friend, Dr. Andrew Lester, delivered the chilling truth: "There was no collision. Mr. Scott experienced... an acute allergic reaction. Anaphylaxis."

A severe latex allergy, exacerbated by "strenuous physical activity."

The words hung in the air, heavy and obscene; the pieces clicked into place with sickening finality.

It wasn't a car crash.

It was sex.

In his car.

For seven years, I had downplayed my family's wealth, my education, my ambitions, all to prop up the myth of the "self-made" Ryan Scott.

For this?

His blatant lies the next morning, about "bad shellfish" and needing me to pick up his impounded Tesla, were a cruel joke.

The car reeked of stale champagne and cheap perfume, brazenly displaying a high-heeled shoe and a torn silk blouse; his contempt for me was physically manifested.

But their sick game was about to change.

When Andrew, my childhood friend, quietly appeared at the impound lot, I made my decision.

"The marriage. With your family. I told my father yes."

My path was set: cold, clear, and utterly decisive.

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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