Too Late, Mr. Betrayer

My bones ached, a deep throb whispering something was terribly wrong. I'd sacrificed, donating marrow to save my fiancé Ethan' s "failing" company and his "dying" college acquaintance, Brooke Hayes. I believed it was for love, for our shared future. Then, a chilling truth surfaced. A text on Ethan' s phone: "$50k transfer... Main portfolio remains shielded." There was no crisis. Brooke, far from dying, walked out of my bedroom, vibrant, triumphant. It was a meticulously planned scam. My heart froze. Ethan gaslighted, his hand too comfortable on Brooke' s waist, denying my pain for her comfort. He prioritized a stray dog over my severe post-donation agony, dismissing my pleas for vital medication while showering Brooke with lavish gifts. Chloe, my best friend, became her accomplice, rationalizing their cruelty. The breaking point arrived when I overheard Ethan confess: he' d orchestrated the entire ordeal, the fake crisis, Brooke' s "illness," all to "make amends" to Brooke. My unconditional love had been weaponized. At a glittering gala, Brooke, her fraud exposed by my desperate words, staged a dramatic fall, pointing accusingly at me. Ethan, without question, condemned me, and Chloe, my dear friend, slapped me hard across the face. Publicly shamed, physically and emotionally shattered, my phone buzzed with Mom's text: "Car waiting. South entrance." My escape. I grabbed my small bag, destroyed my phone' s SIM, and walked out of the hotel, out of their lives, without a backward glance. My only path was to disappear, leaving behind the wreckage they'd created.