Page 36

I get a bad feeling the second I see Jessie’s text.

JESSIE:

Don’t check Twitter.

Or do.

But make sure you sit first.

Then come the emojis: tape recorder, fire, coffin. Jessie doesn’t do metaphors. If she’s cryptic, it’s already too late.

I open my phone.

MORGAN (Group Chat – LadyPodz United):

Girl... is this you??

Attached: TikTok link.

Caption: “When the feminist queen dreams of the Zeta King”

I click.

My voice. Crystal clear. Breathy. Private.

“Adrian. Just—there. No warning. No shirt. No shame.”

The audio ends, and the screen smash-cuts to a montage of Adrian smirking, backlit, sipping something probably overpriced, while Twitter text overlays scream:

“She SAID she hated him.”

“The mic didn’t just catch feelings. It caught her climax.”

I slam my phone down. This isn’t happening.

Except it is.

I grab my laptop. Open Twitter.

The hashtags are trending:

#ZetaLeaks

#EnemiesToOvershar e

#EmilyMoansGate

People are debating whether it’s real.

@AI4Justice:

“Cadence is off. Probably AI-trained on podcast snippets. Look at the breath curve at 0:09.”

@FeministButThirsty:

“I dream in stereo. Let her live.”

I hate them both.

A screenshot is making the rounds from a Discord betting pool:

“Bet’s settled. Told you they hooked up. Audio doesn’t lie.”

— Tyler Z., 41 minutes ago.

People are having a day with my logs. Someone slowed it down and synced it to Wicked Game. Someone else transcribed it into a fanfic intro and posted it under the title Dream Logs: Zeta Files. The internet turned my shame into plot, my voice into thirst trap soundtrack.

I scroll.

I scroll like someone looking for answers and only finding GIFs.

One of them has captions. A screencap of me mid-sigh, eyes half-lidded, with “same girl same” pasted underneath in sparkly Comic Sans.

I click away.

Open a new tab.

Check my calendar. As if somehow a client meeting at three is going to salvage my reputation.

I minimize everything.

And then I curl up on the floor like the world's most emotionally violated croissant .

The worst part isn’t just that the world heard it.

It’s what he did.

Adrian. He got the files I clearly sent by mistake. If he had any decency—any at all—he would’ve heard them, closed the tab, and never spoken of it again. Instead, he handed me to the internet like a sacrificial offering.

He didn’t just use me. He used me twice.

First, he used my body.

Then he used my voice, my trust, my name.

He slept with me. Smiled at me. Said all the right things. Then sold me.

I remember how he looked at me that morning. Like maybe—just maybe—he meant it. Like I was more than a meme.

But it wasn’t real.

None of it.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

I thought I’d hit rock bottom when I dreamed about him.

Turns out rock bottom is sharing it with him.

And watching him press publish.