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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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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