Stacey
They weren’t just laughing at me anymore.
They were erasing me.
The same girls who used to beg to borrow my lip gloss were now reposting Betty’s stupid glow-up reel like it was a revolution. Like her getting hot and popular overnight was some kind of war cry for the insecure masses. #BeLikeBetty was everywhere. The girl I used to trip in the hallways now had more followers than my entire cheer squad combined.
The worst part? I could feel them watching me now—waiting for me to fall further. To crack. And I almost did, the first time I saw Marcus laughing with her.
Because that was mine.
Marcus Mitchell had always been mine. Not officially. Not in a way you could post about. But enough. Enough to matter.
He used to sneak in through my window. Text me when Betty pissed him off. Kiss me with one hand gripping my waist like I was the only girl in the world who made him feel anything. Even if it was anger, lust, distraction—it was something.
And now? He wouldn’t even look at me. He skipped uni. Took a suspension like it was nothing. All because of her.
That fat little liar with a ring light.
But it was when I saw her in that dress—tight burgundy, hair curled, walking through the uni like she owned the floorboards—that I realized something irreversible had shifted. Betty Branson wasn’t just surviving anymore.
She was winning.
And me?
I was background noise.
Until fate handed me a weapon.
It happened on Sunday. After my mom’s charity brunch. I was walking through the gym wing, heels clicking like always, when I paused outside the coach's office. I wasn't snooping. Not at first. I just heard the voice.
Marcus.
I stopped. Leaned in. The door was barely open.
Inside: Marcus and his father.
And what I heard made my blood turn electric.
“She’s not answering,” Marcus muttered. “I don’t know what to say to her.”
Harry Mitchell: cold, cutting. “You don’t need to be in love with her. You need to finish the job. Her father has the NBA pull you need. Get him in a room. Get her back. That’s your way out.”
Silence. And then Marcus said it.
“I don’t want to use her anymore.”
My breath caught.
“You don’t have a choice,” Harry snapped. “You lost everything. And now she’s the only asset left. So figure it out. Make her love you again, or forget basketball forever.”
I was shaking. Furious. Elated.
Marcus had never loved Betty. He had only ever needed her.
And now I had proof.
I hit record on my phone, my heart hammering like a war drum. Their voices came through clear. Manipulative. Cruel. Real.
And the best part?
This wasn’t some revenge fantasy. It was the truth.
Later that night, I replayed it. Over and over. Marcus’s voice cracking. Harry’s threats. The phrase “use her” echoing like a death sentence.
They wanted a fairytale?
I was about to rewrite the ending.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t scream.
I smiled.
Betty had stolen my spotlight.
Now I’d burn hers to the ground.
With one post. One leak. One tap.
I could shatter the new world she built and watch her fall from it in real time.
Let her vlog that.