Public Humiliation

The evening air felt heavier than usual, pressing down on me like an unbearable weight. My fingers trembled as I scrolled through my phone, my screen flooded with notifications—messages, tags, mentions. My breath hitched as I saw the headlines.

Breaking News: Selena’s Best Friend is Marrying Her Longtime Boyfriend!

Their pictures were everywhere. I*******m, T*****r, TikTok. Every platform was buzzing with the scandal, and I was at the center of it. Not as the bride. Not as the friend celebrating love. But as the fool.

The comments were brutal:

"She really thought he loved her? LMAO."

"Imagine funding your own betrayal. Couldn't be me!"

"Selena played herself."

My stomach churned. My hands felt cold. I wanted to throw my phone, to disappear.

She had planned this. Every single detail. She had paid bloggers to promote the wedding, ensuring that the story would spread like wildfire. My so-called best friend—the woman I had introduced to power, money, and luxury—had used my own influence against me.

It was like teaching someone how to bite, only for them to sink their teeth into my throat.

My phone vibrated again.

Dad.

I hesitated before answering.

"What the hell is this, Selena?" His voice was sharp, cutting through my fragile state like a blade. "I told you—I don’t want scandals!"

Tears burned my eyes. My throat tightened. I wanted to explain, but what could I say? That I had trusted the wrong people? That I had given them everything, only to be left humiliated?

My silence only made him angrier.

"Fix this. Now."

The call ended, leaving me in a suffocating void.

More notifications flooded in. Friends. Family. Strangers. People I hadn’t spoken to in years, now suddenly remembering I existed—just to laugh at me.

I was trending. Not for success, not for anything good. But for being a fool.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I switched off my phone and curled into myself.

The world was mocking me. And I had no idea how to survive it.

The last thing I remembered was the cold floor against my skin, the walls spinning, my breath catching in my throat before everything faded into darkness.

Now, I was here.

White walls. The sterile smell of antiseptic. The soft beeping of machines. An IV drip attached to my arm. I was in a hospital.

I blinked, my vision still hazy. My head throbbed with an unbearable pain, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest.

"What… happened?" My voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper.

A shadow moved beside me. My mother.

She stood there, arms crossed, her face twisted in disappointment. Not worry. Not concern. Just disappointment.

"You suddenly collapsed," she said coldly. "I was told to come here."

Her voice was sharp, each word like a slap.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "Mom—"

"Enough, Selena." Her eyes were filled with something worse than anger—shame. "You were supposed to be better than this. I had such high expectations for you. Instead, all I get are scandals on scandals."

My heart shattered all over again.

I had lost everything—my love, my best friend, my dignity. And now, my mother’s respect.

The pain was unbearable.

A nurse walked in, checking my IV, adjusting the machines, but I barely noticed. The weight of my mother’s words was too much.

Then my phone vibrated on the bedside table.

A message.

From an unknown number.

I hesitated before unlocking it. My vision blurred as I read the words:

"I hope you're dead by now, dummy."

A chill ran down my spine. My hands trembled.

Who would send this? My ex? My best friend? Some stranger laughing at my pain?

Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to cry.

I had already lost too much.

But this?

This was the final straw.