The Girl He Called Desperate

The Girl He Called Desperate

Gavin

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The text from Andrew lit up my phone screen, and my heart jumped. I' d spent years as his "friend," his late-night call, secretly hoping this was finally our moment. He asked me to wear "that coyote ugly thing" he liked, denim shorts and boots, for a night at his downtown condo. I drove there, heart pounding, ready to be "seen" by him. But the door swung open to a jeering crowd of his friends, and next to him, recording, was Gabrielle Ross. Andrew smirked, "Look what the cat dragged in," then claimed I'd "gotten the wrong idea," calling me desperate. Gabrielle laughed, narrating for her phone, "When the crazy side-chick won' t take a hint." He tossed a cheap sex toy at my feet, declaring, "Because I' m with Gabrielle now. We' re done." The video went viral, my reputation crumbled, and my freelance design business vanished overnight. With no way to pay my father's mounting medical bills, I was desperate. An agency offered a mere $250,000 for five years of my life, a pittance but my only choice. Then the call came: my father was critically ill and transferred to Andrew' s hospital. I found Andrew and begged him to help, seeing a flicker of the promising doctor he once was. But during my father' s emergency intubation, Andrew abandoned him to console Gabrielle, leaving a junior resident fumbling. My father died. Later, Andrew held Gabrielle in the hospital chapel, and she sneered, saying my father probably gave up "knowing what a slut his daughter is." Rage consumed me. I lunged at her, and Andrew violently shoved me away, caring only for Gabrielle. My father' s ashes, the last physical piece of him, were later spilled and shattered by Gabrielle. I was broken, humiliated, and utterly alone, a monument to Andrew' s callous disregard. But then, my phone rang and a smooth voice announced, "Your patron has arrived. Mr. Blakely is ready to begin your contract." Little did Andrew know, my "patron" was about to help me rise from the ashes.

Introduction

The text from Andrew lit up my phone screen, and my heart jumped.

I' d spent years as his "friend," his late-night call, secretly hoping this was finally our moment.

He asked me to wear "that coyote ugly thing" he liked, denim shorts and boots, for a night at his downtown condo.

I drove there, heart pounding, ready to be "seen" by him.

But the door swung open to a jeering crowd of his friends, and next to him, recording, was Gabrielle Ross.

Andrew smirked, "Look what the cat dragged in," then claimed I'd "gotten the wrong idea," calling me desperate.

Gabrielle laughed, narrating for her phone, "When the crazy side-chick won' t take a hint."

He tossed a cheap sex toy at my feet, declaring, "Because I' m with Gabrielle now. We' re done."

The video went viral, my reputation crumbled, and my freelance design business vanished overnight.

With no way to pay my father's mounting medical bills, I was desperate.

An agency offered a mere $250,000 for five years of my life, a pittance but my only choice.

Then the call came: my father was critically ill and transferred to Andrew' s hospital.

I found Andrew and begged him to help, seeing a flicker of the promising doctor he once was.

But during my father' s emergency intubation, Andrew abandoned him to console Gabrielle, leaving a junior resident fumbling.

My father died.

Later, Andrew held Gabrielle in the hospital chapel, and she sneered, saying my father probably gave up "knowing what a slut his daughter is."

Rage consumed me.

I lunged at her, and Andrew violently shoved me away, caring only for Gabrielle.

My father' s ashes, the last physical piece of him, were later spilled and shattered by Gabrielle.

I was broken, humiliated, and utterly alone, a monument to Andrew' s callous disregard.

But then, my phone rang and a smooth voice announced, "Your patron has arrived. Mr. Blakely is ready to begin your contract."

Little did Andrew know, my "patron" was about to help me rise from the ashes.

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I was four months pregnant, a photographer excited for our future, attending a sophisticated baby brunch. Then I saw him, my husband Michael, with another woman, and a newborn introduced as "his son." My world shattered as a torrent of betrayal washed over me, magnified by Michael's dismissive claim I was "just being emotional." His mistress, Serena, taunted me, revealing Michael had discussed my pregnancy complications with her, then slapped me, causing a terrifying cramp. Michael sided with her, publicly shaming me, demanding I leave "their" party, as a society blog already paraded them as a "picture-perfect family." He fully expected me to return, to accept his double life, telling his friends I was "dramatic" but would "always come back." The audacity, the calculated cruelty of his deception, and Serena's chilling malice, fueled a cold, hard rage I barely recognized. How could I have been so blind, so trusting of the man who gaslighted me for months while building a second family? But on the plush carpet of that lawyer's office, as he turned his back on me, a new, unbreakable resolve solidified. They thought I was broken, disposable, easily manipulated – a "reasonable" wife who would accept a sham separation. They had no idea my calm acceptance was not surrender; it was strategy, a quiet promise to dismantle everything he held dear. I would not be handled; I would not understand; I would end this, and make sure their perfect family charade crumbled into dust.

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