When The Tesla Called

Name: When The Tesla Called
Rating: 5.0 (1 reviews)

Gavin

Short stories | Completed

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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.

Betrayal Revenge Divorce Drama Female-centered

Chapter 10

06-26 16:07

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.